Where Do We Go From Here?
by silverluna
Summary: The sequel to "Hard To Believe It Will Be Okay". Two have each other to lean on: Lassiter copes by becoming obsessed with the dead killer; Juliet copes through aggression and anger. Shawn does not cope. Even in death, Saul is not done with them. NOT SLASH.
1. Chapter 1: Will We Burn Like We Do Here?

**Where Do We Go From Here?**

A _Psych_ story and **Sequel **to** "Hard To Believe It Will Be Okay"**

by silverluna

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"_The battle's done_

_And we kind of won_

_So we sound our victory cheer_

_But, where do we go from here?"_

—Cast of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, "Once More With Feeling"

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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I don't own _Psych_! I also don't own any references to Joss Whedon's _Buffy the Vampire Slayer, _U2_, _iPhone_. _

Author's Note: Welcome, brave souls far less squeamish than myself (LOL), to the sequel to **"Hard To Believe It Will Be Okay"**. Reading that prior to reading this **is necessary**, unless you are not expecting to understand any of the many, many, many references that will be made.

Hope you enjoy! :) Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are highly welcomed and appreciated. Thanks!

Main characters: Carlton Lassiter, Juliet O'Hara, Shawn Spencer, OMC(s)

Secondary characters: Karen Vick, Burton "Gus" Guster, Saul (OMC)

Minor characters: Henry Spencer

Rating: T (for violence, aggression, and whumpage, some "blue" language, and everything else the "T" rating suggests)

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Drama

Summary: Two of them cope, in their own ways. Lassiter becomes obsessed with the dead killer, delving into what secrets may lie behind the killer's "old tales". Juliet becomes increasingly aggressive, angry, and fiercely protective of her partner. They have each other to lean on, and become both a tight knot of support and a set of magnets which repel the other.

Shawn is not coping at all.

Even in death, Saul is not done with any of them.

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**Chapter One: Will We Burn In Heaven Like We Do Down Here?**

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The killer, as it turned out, had had a last name. The name stared out at Lassiter from the computer screen in bold black typeface. _Grant_. Saul Grant. He had no priors before the age of twenty; it seemed, until then, he had been a saint.

Or just too slick or wily to get caught.

His first, on file in Norton, New Mexico, was for theft and vandalism. A barely-out-of-his-teens male juvenile (once, twice and always) acting out.

Lassiter pressed his lips into hard line, holding the grimace long enough to make his jaw ache.

Juliet O'Hara pinched the bridge of her nose, indulging in a few seconds of closed eyes and a shallow breath before stepping up to her partner's desk. He didn't look up, didn't remove his thoughts from the past or tear his eyes from information he felt he _needed_ to glean. "Carlton," Juliet said quietly. She knew better than to push him too much, or lecture him about eyestrain; she knew he'd been at this all day, for weeks now—for months, even before he'd come back, he'd made a point to start it, small things, like phone calls—in the moments he'd deemed as "free" in the spaces of his other open cases. He hadn't so much as told her this was a "cold" case that consumed him—it should, Juliet reflected, be open and shut.

It should, but as often as these things went, it was not. The murderer of these five Santa Barbara victims was dead—she'd made certain of that. And it was, she also reflected, plausible that he'd killed before, many times, with the crimes going unsolved one after the other.

But he had not killed her partner, the sixth victim. The sole survivor. The man had made plans to kill, had executed his torture—physical and mental—slowly, meticulously, assured by the success of his other kills that this one would also be carried through to completion.

But he had not counted on her—but Lassiter had. Lassiter believed, throughout his entire imprisonment, that she was going to arrive—that she had it in her power to save him.

This she knew, because he had told her so. Not right away, but after her many dutiful visits to his hospital room, and in the few nights she'd stopped by his place after her shifts to check in on him, he'd finally played a willing, sentimental card, to tell her that she had been his reason for . . . fighting, hanging on, not giving in, not dying, though his blood loss had been severe, and though . . . as he'd hinted, the mental torture he'd endured was earth shattering.

# # #

He'd stopped her from fussing, gripping her arm and holding on until she sat down. "There's something . . . I wanted to tell you. Need to tell you, O'Hara."

Juliet had to admit she'd broken the hard, icy shell that had encased her since . . . actually, she couldn't pinpoint when. Maybe when she'd resisted seeing him because she was convinced, selfishly, that her own failure had put him in this position, in danger. (Which he'd gone and sobbed wasn't true.) But her guilt slid down her, sticking everywhere like tar. When had she stopped letting herself be Lassiter's friend? Had taken on the role of his "guardian"? He hadn't asked her too, would never ask her to. She felt ashamed. She started to force the words out, to apologize for being foolish, but his lips were already moving, were already making her out to be some kind of long distance angel or convincing hallucination. "It may have been the blood loss," he said, "but I would have sworn you were there. Long before I actually _knew_ you were there." He laughed at himself humorlessly. "That sounds like psycho-spiritual crap, doesn't it?"

She thought it over while he paused, trying to feel deserving of her newest status as angel and savior to Carlton Lassiter. It made her cringe. No, she was still just his friend, and his partner, and herself as junior detective doing her job, stopping a killer who refused to drop his weapons, and back off his prey.

Juliet fought the bitter taste that crept onto her tongue. With the bitter was something hot, like fire, or anger, or pain, and she suddenly wanted to hit something. She ground her fingernails into her palm, her fist low so her partner couldn't see.

She had wanted to be his "guardian" so she had become it. When she had become so angry at a dead man. _When_ had she?

"No," Juliet finally answered. She shook out her fist and patted his hand. "Go on."

Lassiter blew out a breath, and struggled to sit up. She waited, not offering to help or making a move towards him, just in case this was another thing she shouldn't intrude upon. (It was still hard to tell sometimes.) When he groaned, she got a pillow and slipped it quickly behind his back. He'd glared, but it was a partially grateful look.

"I needed to believe in something," Carlton said. "I tried to believe in myself, but as time passed, as he . . . kept talking to me, wounding me, it got harder and harder. And," he paused, turning his head as if to hide a look on his face. A blush? It was hard for her to tell. "And my thoughts kept turning to you. To how good you've been for me . . . to me, at times when there was no way in hell I deserved it."

He turned back, looking embarrassed. "I'm mostly a jerk," he said. "Obsessed with my career, obsessed with getting ahead. I don't care about people as much as I should."

"Carlton," Juliet breathed, "you're not a—"

He shook his head firmly. "I am. But I think you've . . . your presence in my life . . . has helped me to be less of one. Sometimes." He frowned. "I didn't think I'd get the chance to tell you that. How goddamn important you are, O'Hara." He tried to smile. "I believed in you. I mean, I believe in you." He looked at her, his eyes glistening. "I trust you with my life."

There. Was that the moment she was trying to remember? Or was it that certain words set her off, brought up fury?

"Carlton, I . . . I trust you with mine too."

He smiled then, and thanked her for trusting him. And for becoming his friend, though he didn't say it with words, so she strapped this third weight to her back again, though she didn't consider any one of them a burden: partner, friend, guardian. She refused to accept "angel" or "hero"; she didn't consider herself any shining thing.

# # #

Juliet glanced at her partner now as he peered intensely at the screen. "This isn't good for you," she said quietly, inferring less about eyestrain and more about what she saw as self-flagellation.

Lassiter squinted, pursing his lips. He didn't have the heart to—he jerked his eyes from the screen. But he didn't have the mettle to snap at her, to tell her to get the hell out. They'd bonded further over his death, over the killer's death; Lassiter wished, foolishly, he knew, that he could have seen the look in her eyes as she pulled the trigger—but he also thought it over with the peculiar sense that had he seen it, he may have been struck blind.

_Hell hath no fury like—_

He frowned to himself, knowing that that phrasing didn't entirely fit. He let his eyes drift to his partner, to the bags under her eyes, to the pinched mouth, to the dullness of her complexion. He sighed. "I have to do this, Juliet," he answered just as quietly, as if if they both kept to whispers the secrets which had passed between them would always remain only theirs.

It was a hope of both—though not a thing that either of their police sanctioned psychiatrists appreciated.

She still saw it often, the man's body whipping backwards, flung as if by a strong wind. She could see the splatter of blood as the bullet exploded into his forehead. But she still did not care as much about this death as the few things she'd witnessed the psychopath doing. These were the thoughts that kept her awake at night—these were the all consuming worries that threatened her focus. She had come to learn that she was furious that this one evil man had nearly taken away her partner—a person she had highly invested in, a person of good character, with high attempts at good morals—her friend, who believed in her, trusting her when he trusted no one else but himself.

# # #

No one had come to claim the body.

An attempt had been made to discover the man's identity—to find his next of kin, but so little had been known about the dead man. His fingerprints were not on file in the criminal database, which Juliet found difficult to settle. The man had hardly been an angel; it was impossible to believe that these were the very first murders he'd ever committed. He seemed practiced at abduction too—and had some disturbing black magic to keep even a speck of his DNA from landing on his victims. What was found was exactly what he wanted to be found—his signatures, with the purpose for what he chose unknown. Unknown still. Lassiter knew his first name only, if that _was_ his real name, and had reported that the man spoke of a grandfather who may have raised him—but all of the information Lassiter had been told could be suspect. Psychopaths often lied.

In lieu of fingerprints on record, or a last name—still considering whether or not the first name was real— "Saul Doe"—Lassiter took it upon himself to find out why. He had spent a month, on his lunch breaks, in "free moments", seeking out constant information, anything and everything he could find out about Saul. It had taken him three weeks to procure the last name; now his focus shifted to finding and following the trail of blood and death; these patterns were similar in mostly small towns of the Southwest, in Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Texas . . . and _this_. _Norton, New Mexico._ Not only this. Lassiter tapped the his finger on the mouse subconsciously.

It could have started as a harmless quest, a simple solution, but Juliet felt that Vick should have limited his access to all things Saul and killer. This was her fierce opinion, but it was too late to assert it now. Lassiter was hooked. Why he wanted to know—what he wanted to know—Juliet herself could not answer. She was baffled he wanted to get _closer_ to the killer . . . get into the dead man's head. His obsession disturbed her, even brought her the occasional variation of nightmare.

He would never know this; she could keep anything she wanted from him. He wasn't as persistent as she was; lately, he didn't have a desire to know about anything deeper than her skin; that was just fine.

_Odessa, Texas. Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Cave Creek, Arizona. On and on. _The patterns, if there were any, scattered activity all over these states. There was a lot of ground to cover. In his head, he was already drawing up lists, barking orders to special task forces. It seemed so clear. There could be connections, broken links, because no one could see them like he could. One of Juliet's whispered suggestions had been that he was reading too much into what could be just a series of random acts. That he was seeing what was not there. She had been gentle then, gripping his arm just above them elbow, the two of them in the hallway alone. Still early, after his return.

There was one suspicious unsolved death in Colorado, at deep snow time, and it may or may have not been related. Wrists slashed, a few years back, case never solved. But these were among the things that kept Carlton awake at night, drawn, growing paler, thinner by each day.

Juliet noticed. It gnawed at her to watch him slipping, right before her eyes, feeling as if she could do nothing to stop him. Or heal him.

To her, the killer was a brief bleep on the radar—mostly shapeless, faceless for weeks. He produced bodies, he left no traces. Then, she was in his space, holding her gun on him, staring at him with open horror as he stared back with Lassiter's blood _on his lips._ He bore the fevered look of someone satisfied. He didn't respond at all to her threat—her promise—to shoot.

"Somabitch was a person," Lassiter muttered, startling Juliet, whose hearing had adjusted to take in his low speech clearly; it was one of her secret ways of "keeping an eye on him".

His statement didn't register, or barely did; it knocked on the doors of her thoughts, pleading an audience, but her brain said no, not now. She didn't acknowledge his words, but stopped, waiting with her shoulders hitched to see if there was more. She heard, despite the shuffle of paper and other buzzing of constant activity, a drawer open and close, then, a scrawl of ink pressed onto a pad of paper; Lassiter always pressed hard, writing his notes with purpose. Then. Now. It was one of the few things that had stayed the same.

She wished she had Shawn's gift, could pick up the name from the ether without having the walk over to the pad of paper and take a gander. It was useless. Juliet shook, forcing her hands into hard fists, pulling her arms in to her sides. She nodded tightly and made herself back away to return to her makeshift desk within his line of sight. Her vigil would continue at a distance; it had also become a ritual for her. She remained standing, attentive.

"A real person," Lassiter muttered again, staring at the words he'd written. _Saul Grant_. He couldn't yet be certain this wasn't an alias, that this dead man hadn't been surviving off someone else's identity (at least by name) to keep some anonymity. But . . . it hardly seemed a thing he would do. _Would have done._ Saul Grant.

"_Name's Saul," the killer had stated conversationally, peering down at his dazed, bound and injured victim._ The memory was so vivid, Carlton couldn't be entirely convinced it hadn't happened just a few seconds before.

The truth was . . . _too_ much of the victimization was still perfectly clear. There were also perfect fogs—blank spaces where he must have passed out—or when he was knocked out. What was most clear—almost in entirety—were the times when he was alone with the killer. The pain—physical and emotional—the killer brought him. The mental anguish Lassiter brought himself. The knowledge that he was going die there, alone, forgotten about after the fact—it could still sting his eyes with the harshness of tear gas. _"Name's Saul."_

He had only spoken Lassiter's full name once, drawling out every syllable. _"Dee-tect-ive Carlton Lassiter, badge number 856-SBPD." _It made him wonder if the criminal's other victims—all civilians—had been treated to this same, one-time-only, deconstruction of their names before the deconstruction of their bodies—and spirits—began. After, there had only been titles: "Dee-tect-ive" and "Lawman", over and over. Lassiter wished he could . . . his jaw tightened, a familiar response. There wasn't anyone left alive to answer his questions, anyone that _knew_.

Carlton briefly glanced to his right again; he was aware of the press of her presence near him, her constant vigil. He barely had the heart to tell her to shoo. Or maybe that wasn't it, maybe mettle had nothing to do with it either. He allowed himself to give Juliet another a full glance—quick—enough to see that she was at her usual, glaring at the space above his head; sometimes, when they locked eyes, both began their individual fraying. Not always, but Carlton knew, in these times, Juliet was working up the courage to chew him out. So far, Vick had been letting it slide; an obvious clue that she didn't know the depths he was letting himself fall into—willingly, barely taking in a full breath before he dropped his head into the dark water. Though it was hardly an exercise in drowning; surely Juliet would grab him by the lapels and shake some sense into him if she even suspected—

He could count on her, he knew he could. The knowledge burned him, brought a fire to his insides that he had been certain—for a few months following everything—Saul had desecrated forever. But Juliet had . . . reminded him. He counted on her to be his constant.

Right now, he couldn't—wouldn't let himself—touch the barrier of her anger. The anger had wrapped itself tightly around her limbs, even bringing her hands to resemble claws every now and then. There was, though, a small pang of guilt that throbbed for her under his ribcage; he knew she needed his help, somehow, it _had_ to be him to help her deal with . . . this. They would have to lock eyes, exchange words, and neither of them could make a break for the exits. Just thinking about it made him want to run now, a discreet speed walk giving way to a sprint once he was out of her sight. Part of her pain was inextricably bound to his; helping her meant also letting himself be helped. Which meant talking about . . . Saul. And Saul's deepest, darkest deeds.

Carlton let his eyes drop back to his tasks, only after he'd let himself look at her eyes, let himself give her the chance to turn her glare straight on him. Right now, he couldn't. He had work to do.

Lassiter's jaw tightened again as he looked towards the information in front of him; his tormentor was dead, in a manner of speaking. He pushed back in his chair, the knots in his back having grown tighter since the last time he'd moved.

Vick had barely been able to disguise her consternation when she had ordered Lassiter to desk duty—and he had not protested. He'd taken the news in a daze on his first day back after a long rest in the hospital—after stitches and bandages, blood tests and painkillers, after rehab for his mangled limbs and opened wounds, after so much blood lost and regained—after forced time off at home. It wasn't so much that he now considered himself gun shy, or a liability to his partner, but a change had come over him—and from the constant hawk-like looks from his partner, Lassiter prayed that it was temporary; a gauzy veil that had settled across his perspective with the potential to be lifted.

Or ripped away. He stole a look at his partner's tense form as she walked from his desk stiffly. She had been cleared for fieldwork, though the psychiatric care had been made mandatory.

He was still painfully aware of the bandages still wrapped tightly over his wounds, as well as the horror and humiliation he was forced to relive when he gave his statement; he'd been tested for everything that could be transferred from saliva to the bloodstream. It was twisted, then, that the killer had not been a carrier any diseases—nor anything dormant, waiting to strike—he'd been perfectly healthy.

Lassiter sneered. Not that Saul Grant hadn't left Lassiter with plenty; the physical wounds, psychological anguish, and a strange drive to learn everything he could about this man—so he could even hope to scratch the surface of just how the killer had been able to best him. He still had something to prove to himself, to others, to his own paranoia. This was . . . good for him. This was what he had to do.

Across the room, Juliet O'Hara sighed. She was exhausted trying to fight passive-aggressively with Lassiter. She sighed again, knowing, as she _had_ known when it started, that it was a waste of her energy and resources to argue with him—he was _always_ a detective, tireless in his search for truth. Usually, this quality of his was admirable, but Juliet had a terrible feeling that the prize on the end of this rope was a death of sorts. She sighed for a third time, extracting herself from his line of sight—not that he was looking towards her—to get herself another cup of coffee. These days were going to be long ones, all of them.

# # #

He couldn't sleep again, not after that last dream, not after waking up with his bedsheets tangled around his throat again. Shawn's hand sweep his bedside table, which was currently two orange crates stacked on top of each other, his fingers poised over his iPhone. He wanted to call, wanted to talk, but he knew two things for certain: Gus was not ready to hear his explanations, let alone his near-death experiences, and Shawn was not quite ready to spin it so he came off looking okay; he just wasn't his usual self.

Shawn scrubbed the heel of his hands across his face, eyes, forehead, a soothing motion and pressure that blocked out everything for a few seconds. Then, he was just Shawn Spencer, fake psychic extraordinaire, SBPD consultant, and loyal if not eccentric best friend to Burton Guster. He was not a traitor, a liar, a deceiver, an accessory after the fact, aiding a murderer knowingly or unknowingly, or a near murder victim himself. He was still always a disappointment to Henry, but he was not, in those few seconds, a disappointment to Gus. An embarrassment. A sham. Reckless enough to . . . no, wait, he was still reckless. Gus knew this; this wasn't going to change on either side.

Shawn's body swung on its hinges to bring him upright, and his legs swung over the side of the bed (a mattress propped up on cinderblocks), and he went to the shoebox where he'd put the strange souvenir he'd kept of the crime; proof, other than his own bloodied shirt, which he'd thrown in the trash . . . after puking all over it (as if it wasn't toast before that). Shawn knocked off the lid and grabbed the cloth, unwrapping it feverishly as if it were a gift; each time, he always hoped it would and would not be there, at the same time, that he'd somehow dreamed the whole thing up, but that it had really happened too.

Hat pin, 20 centimeter silver shaft with red Art Deco style teardrop cap, circa 1940s.

Shawn puckered his mouth, wrapped the thing back up and shoved it back into the box. He still didn't know if he was disappointed, or relieved.

He hadn't . . . told a soul. He hadn't even gone to the box to tell a thing to that older guy with the white collar whom Gus referred to as Father Westley. He only really went to make Gus feel better, and because Gus didn't know . . . only had selective knowledge, it seemed like a vain act. And, because the killer was dead, Shawn had conveniently slipped through the cracks on giving a full statement; though he'd mimicked it with slashed through details about his vision, which "put" him at the scene, and then had dutifully—mostly so—repeated what he had seen when he and Juliet arrived; the bare minimum seemed to suffice. After all, the killer was dead.

Shawn had to remind himself of this; he would never again appear to smack Shawn in the back of the head, or wrap his hands—or Shawn's own flannel—around Shawn's throat.

He had a prickly urge to return to the shoebox, to lift its lid and hold the cold pin in his hand. It was such a small detail, holding the suicide king in perfect place on the victims' clothing. Shawn tried to tuck his hands in his pockets before realizing his sweat pants had none; he ran his shaking fingers down the sides of his thighs. It was a small detail; it shouldn't, in some creepy way he couldn't fully explain, hold the embodiment of this man of evil—it was only an object, was hardly important at all.

He should just . . . toss it. His eyes slid across the room, his vision pooling on that space. He didn't know why he was keeping it for. The police had confiscated both boxes Lassiter had mentioned to him—ordinary duplicates of the pins, and several copies—though not filled to the brim—of the homemade suicide kings. When he looked sideways towards the box, after dreams like this, he could remember what those cards looked like—the slant of hearts. How they were off enough to be on—but still off—still catch _his_ eye.

Without thinking about it, Shawn pulled on some clothes. It was early, still dark, but he had little reason to go back to sleep. Even less to stay awake. He didn't want to stay here with . . . with _that_.

He could visualize it pinned to Lassiter's shirt, the card pressed down over his left side, the back sticky with blood. He could never see if Lassiter's eyes were opened or closed. He could imagine Juliet, arm raised, arm shaking, shooting a dead man. Over and over and over and over again.

He could imagine her dressed in black, walking down the hallway of the police station. Sometimes he added a little hat with a black veil, held to her hair with a . . . hat pin, 20 centimeter silver shaft with red Art Deco style teardrop cap, circa 1940s. He could visualize her washed out skin turning for him . . .

There was a sneer. Or tears. Or blankness.

He always . . . thought up a good quip about how the Goth look was unsuitable for her, but in those moments he could never say it. The space around him was flat.

Sometimes these were in his dreams, and sometimes, they followed him like PIs as he dragged himself around, as he raised his hand to his head in more false gestures for public show, or tipped the latest cup of coffee or glass of beer into his mouth.

They were real enough to feel real. In the back of his mind, Shawn could hear a gnat that was formerly his best friend teasing him over the logistics of that statement. He sighed.

Shawn hadn't really spent time thinking through what others might think, how they would react, if they knew more. He often had a pulsing of emotions right under his skin, gathered often around his neck, that he cared little to deal with. Fear, a steady panic, and deep shame were often most prominent, pushing on him as if he'd swallowed fire.

He hadn't allowed himself to feel good, even though he had been the co-hero. He could gloat about being the one who found Lassiter in the first place, who had been the catalyst for the proper rescue.

But he might have been the catalyst for the proper assault—bad karma; they canceled each other out. Shawn didn't usually care about karma; he lied for a living to find the truth. Before he'd become "serious" about lying for a living, he'd been content enough to help from a distance—to call in what he knew. And he knew he was not a cop. Shawn swallowed deeply, a dry swallow that was not enough to send the fire below. The back of his knees felt weak; he had to sit. He lowered himself to his mattress, let himself fall back against the pillows.

The killer's face flashed in the dark—a determined stare of hard marble, of eternalness. The man knew exactly what he was about to do; Shawn was a hapless prairie dog about to be gobbled by a lion, or a snake.

"So why didn't he finish the job?" Shawn whispered aloud, his eyelids falling heavily. Was it strange that the killer's "residual presence" made him sleepy? Or was that . . . he was thinking of his own death? He tried to push his eyes back open. His failed death? But . . . if he hadn't lived, then how would he have been able to warn Juliet?

One eye opened. Again, there was a bitter taste under his tongue. Did it mean . . . was the killer that smug? That he _knew_ that there was a _chance_ that he hadn't killed Shawn? But there was still the gnawing _"Why?" _Or "Why not?"

Back, back to this again. There was so much of "this" or "that"—what he knew, what he could glean from a few shaky memories (or even the most vividly intense ones), and what he might never know. He knew way too much—way too little too. And the man who might be able to answer was lying on a slab in the morgue. Not that _he_ would ever tell—not ever.

He might just be the "type" to toy with any survivors—with law enforcement, lawyers, advocates, family members of victims—always enjoying the game, the looks on their faces as he still refused them. Shawn guessed he was the type who had never seen the inside of a prison; who may have, at an earlier point in his "career"—Shawn thought with a quick gulp—once or twice seen the inside of a police station, maybe an interrogation room.

For a moment, Shawn tried to imagine what it would be like to interrogate someone like this.

_Who would break first?_ he wondered. Shawn could picture an "interview" lasting for fifteen hours or more, twenty, before the killer slowly revealed that . . . he wanted a lawyer. Pre Bono, U2. Shawn squinted; another insistence he could almost feel Gus snapping the correct answer, which he had not given. The killer was used to bidding his time. Was used to doing the killing his way.

But Shawn had . . . interrupted. Had this . . . had this ever happened before? A knot tightened in his gut. He wondered if there was a way he could find out. If he was someone not the only one who had managed to survive what should have been his last breath. Besides, of course, Lassie, who barely counted.

Reflexively, Shawn grimaced. This was the wrong thing to say, even though he hadn't spoken it aloud. He wondered what would happen if he cracked a joke like that around Juliet?

Was there a chance he'd be picking his teeth up from the floor? Shawn shuddered a little. He remembered what she looked like on that night, her eyes as sharp as steel. He wondered, briefly, if he could go to her.

What would she say if she knew he wanted to learn more about the killer? How it might be important, while he had to lie to her why he wanted the information?

He wasn't sure he could do it; his usual honey-spun lies were no longer reflex, instinct. She might . . . see right through him. Shawn felt transparent; he had to check the skin on his arms to see if it was so. No, no, it was still the guise of being entirely whole. He touched his throat, then pulled a blanket to his chin. Shawn let both eyes close.


	2. Chapter 2: The Killer In Me Is In You

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I don't own references to the short story "The Monkey's Paw" by W.W. Jacobs; or to the fairy tale "Little Red Riding Hood".

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, comments and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. Thanks for the reviews thus far. *hugs* If you have an extra moment to spare after you read this chapter, please do review. :) It would be so encouraging to know what you think/feel about this story so far. Thank you so much. :)

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**Chapter Two: The Killer In Me Is The Killer In You**

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# # #

Gus stared at his phone. He was missing something, had been for a few months now. But his anger had been such a good, unwavering companion that it was getting harder and harder to turn his back on it.

What had passed between them had been entirely Shawn's doing—Shawn's recklessness, his unfettered selfishness, his carelessness—the big nesses Gus had always been able to look passed in the past.

But that was when they had still worked cases together, got in scrapes together, got rescued by the police together.

Gus had done his part—he'd gone directly to the police when he'd suspected trouble for his friend. And trouble had found Shawn—while he'd been looking for it alone.

"_I was there, Gus. With the killer." _The memory still stung; his fists balled up in reaction as if there was a target to strike. Gus sighed. Anger was a good companion, but a lonely one also. He pursed his lips, wondering if he was ready to dive into the can of worms awaiting as he finally reached out to Shawn. Could he handle his friend reappearing stupidly, as if nothing had happened—nothing had soured, gone to hell, been altered—bounding up to him like a puppy, ready to lick his hand or eat all of his favorite treats? Would he not make note of Gus's silence in the car on the drive to the hospital, or Gus's quick exit without a word to even Henry Spencer?

Gus frowned. Shawn would expect Gus's forgiveness—just as if the events _hadn't_ ever happened. Gus remembered too well Shawn's guilty behavior and refusal to clue him in on whatever it was Shawn may have done—and then he'd left for his other job. Shawn had had plenty of opportunities; even when he texted, he'd left it deliberately vague.

He could have come back early—left the meeting, met Shawn instead wherever he had gone. They were supposed to be . . . in this together.

No. Gus wasn't ready for forgiveness. He wasn't tired enough of the anger squeezing his gut, or grinding his teeth while he slept, of relying on his dry toast Central Coast coworkers for interesting evenings out. He was still content to cling to the numbness that had come over him following the anger following the line uttered by Shawn that had changed Gus's worldview.

_Why, Shawn?_ Gus had thought—still thought, quite frequently—_why wasn't I there with you?_

# # #

He was . . . he was . . . he was . . . inside the nightmare. While awake, Shawn realized; he was standing in line to buy a smoothie; he'd woken with such a craving. It was sometime in the afternoon, but he wasn't so good counting time neatly into hours or days anymore. Too much blurred—when he was asleep, when he was awake, when he was dreaming, when he was dying.

As if he could never be so alive again. He wanted the plastic cup in his hands, he wanted the straw pressed to his tongue, he wanted the pineapple coolness flooding his mouth.

That night, he'd tasted too much of his own blood. He'd bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood when he slid off his motorcycle, eating dirt, eating pavement, eating sparks—his teeth chattering violently in his head. And he'd still had to find his footing, get up the stairs of the police station, tell his side of the story, in a manner of speaking. Or psyching.

Sweat beaded across Shawn's brow; he felt like he couldn't wait for his turn at the counter, wondered if he made it up there if his hands would shake too much getting the wrinkled dollar bills out of his wallet.

There wasn't anywhere he needed to be. No one was looking for him. He imagined the coins slipping through his fingers when he tried to drop some change in the tip jar; the coins made too much noise . . . what if . . . what if the killer was waiting around the corner? What if he could hear Shawn coming? Shawn sucked in his breath, holding it while he looked around for something familiar—there were only two people wearing hats. He counted instead the visible jewelry—including eyebrow rings, bracelets and watches nearly hidden by the few with long sleeves, and pinky rings sported by men.

"Hi, there," the cashier greeted with a practiced smile. He'd made it up. She didn't drop it even when he turned to her, realizing he hadn't shaved in at least a week; lately, the razor had been shaking too much in his grasp. He'd already cut himself too many times. His hair . . . unbrushed. "How can I help you today?" she asked, and Shawn stared at her plaintively before finding his voice; it crackled with disuse.

# # #

_After me,_ Lassiter thought, without really thinking what that might mean, until it lingered and he followed it. _After me._ _Is he still after me? Who would have come after me . . . once I was finally dead? Surely someone SBPD officer, if not O'Hara—or at least a homeless bum or some teenage kids looking for privacy. Someone would have found my body. _Unless . . . Saul would have taken the evidence with him. He seemed to have no qualms about carrying dead people around.

Lassiter's Adam's apple moved as he swallowed the knots. For a few moments, he was overwhelmed by a sensation of choking, having a bit of food or hair or bone stuck in the back of his throat. It passed. _Who would have come after me . . . once I was dead?_ he thought again, this time thinking the context through a different way. _Would Saul have stuck around here or would have drifted his way elsewhere, maybe back or forward to another mostly desert state, Nevada, Arizona?_ He would have killed again—he'd even promised Lassiter that he would. But _after_ Lassiter and his wealth of sweet, strong blood, the kills would be carried out with _purpose_. As if this meant something, as if murder wasn't still murder. Though he was sitting, Lassiter grabbed the edge of the desk for stability. It was silly to feel lightheaded by only a couple of thoughts, he thought, but there wasn't any helping it. _Would he have killed another person in Santa Barbara?_

He considered O'Hara, arriving on scene, her backup delayed . . . finding her partner a corpse, finding Saul with his blood soaked platitudes, waving his knife around, taunting her. Could she have been next? Would she have come after? Lassiter made himself look up, find her, rest his eyes on her. She was sitting at her desk, focused on casework, looking calm and professional. He breathed a small sigh of relief. She was fine. She was okay. Saul's influence had not been cast over her like a net—like a noose—pulled tight. He nodded, satisfied to know.

And she really wasn't going anywhere. Earlier, she'd fixed him with a raised eyebrow, giving him a glance which suggested she "had her eyes on him". Lassiter knew, even deep down, that he wasn't altogether comfortable with this, but there was a smoldering coal of warmth resting against his ribs that reminded him that she was his: She _wanted_ to be . . . his friend, partner, cinch pin when it was called for it (or even if it was not). She was there. Here. It was a marvel, truly, that he figured he wouldn't ever wrap his head around.

He guessed there was some advantage to her still being young; it was less that she was impressionable and more that she still had hope of even dire situations coming out well. Again, and again, she believed in this. Lassiter sighed. He supposed that . . . a part of him had come back around to see the world like this. Open, full of possibilities, people with good intentions. She believed he was a mostly good person under his secretive web of anti-social eccentricities. And she had not given up on him, even when he transferred all of his life's anger to her, as if she had been the one to make the world so sad and hostile. Yet, he blamed her for feeling this ridiculous idealism; for clinging to it now, _after_ such bad things. . . . Lassiter crumpled a napkin in his fist, for the first time aware he was holding on to something. He gazed down at his desk and found a pile of crumbs; his food fairy had been by and he hadn't even noticed; was it because, lately, she seemed to move through this world like a ghost?

Unless, he was more ghostlike. Sometimes, he could swear his hands were transparent, his eyes so bleary from interrupted sleep, from working too hard for little reason to perform this kind of research. He felt obligated. And he had been using finding next of kin as an excuse for so long he almost believed it himself. Outside patience was fraying; he could do this for as long as it took but he knew who was watching him would soon act.

_How did he spend his days? His nights? Was the process—the abduction, the torture, the deaths—effortless, both physically and mentally? Or was there extensive planning? What were his habits?_ Lassiter toed the line, partially feeling ill considering Saul's life prior to . . . but he couldn't help it. It was sick to think about it, he considered, scrubbing his pen in a long line against a pad of blank, white paper. It was sick. But he . . . he wanted to know.

# # #

Juliet wondered why—how—when she'd become so in synch with Lassiter's small movements, why she could hear a pen scratching a piece of paper and miss him, deeply, when he was right here, just a few feet away. This little thing, she told herself, reminded her that he was still in there; it hurt her to think of him this way. He was still living—alive—she had arrived at zero hour, T-minus three seconds and counting. She had not been able to wash or throw away the clothes that were ruined by her partner's blood. She'd stuffed them into a garbage bag and dropped it in the back of her closet, hungry ghosts seeping out of a net.

In the hospital, he'd smiled at her, a broken thing that reminded her of the disguise of smile—or broken genuine smile—on his lips when they'd come to get him. _"You came for me."_

Juliet let the guilt wash in ankle deep; she'd made a promise they would get through, together. Was it fair to indulge in remnants of the past, the little things she missed and wanted back? (She'd worked so hard on him, hadn't she? And he'd done the same for her. She owed him.)

He had, without fail, sworn her to secrecy and even mustered some venom-filled phrases of just what might become of her if she told anyone, _anyone_, that he had become so emotional in front of her. Juliet played along, pretending to be relieved as some of his usual self peeked through the bandages, through the fear still etched into his demeanor—but in truth, her partner's crying had taken as much out of her as it had taken from him, and she was certainly not ever planning to share this private moment—as much hers as his—with anyone.

Her stomach had knotted as she watched, listened—first trying not to watch but then finding herself unable to look away; she experienced the terror of physical loss—the terrible "what ifs" of losing him, not just to a killer or to death—but also his personality up to this point. These thoughts stunned her speechless; she gasped at even her own thoughts—because Carlton Lassiter was so rough around the edges, endlessly gruff and often blunt with no apologies or remorse of his behavior or words—going on as he always had, as a solitary man. Had anyone asked her, a yesterday before all of this, even if she had been in a good mood, wouldn't she have easily stated that they all always had traits to improve upon, that Carlton had many, many to be improved upon? To have him wiped clean, the rough spots polished, the edges of his smile pulled up towards his eyes, an offering of kind words for no reason but the mundaneness of daily life, a small buoy in the large sea of a long, long day?

Juliet wondered, had she received her 'wish'? A 'wish' with the price tag as hefty as in a horror story she had read about a cursed monkey's paw?

Lassiter had confessed a reason for his emotion, one that almost broke her heart and made her furious, though she could understand why even her strong, tough, and unwavering partner might go to such a place with his thoughts. He was disappointed and disgusted with himself—humiliated to have ended up in a situation where he had been made into a victim—unable, she realized, to stop blaming himself: _He_ had failed—not she. It was going to be tough work convincing him of his self-worth; again, Juliet found herself stunned—another trait Lassiter seemed to carry in spades: strong self-confidence, self-value, perseverance, and drive. "You think that—you're no longer good enough to be my partner?" Juliet breathed, holding his eyes with the lasers of her own. He winced, discomforted, wanting to jerk his head away. Then, "How dare you." Then, "We'll get through this." She squeezed his hand hard enough to make him grimace. "We're going to get through this, Carlton."

_How could I make such a promise? _she asked herself now, glancing up to see him, hard at "work".

# # #

Lassiter figured it might be an unsolved mystery, unless he was actually able to track down every last person who may have come in contact with Saul Grant . . . or whatever alias or aliases he used, small town to small town, city to city, state to state, country to country . . . Lassiter's mouth twisted. Should he? Should he try?

Across the bullpen, his partner cleared her throat; it was hardly directed at him, and though he didn't acknowledge it, the gesture hit him on a subconscious level.

_His accent . . . his accent must be cultivated, his drawl practiced, certain words smokier or huskier than others._ It wasn't fair, a statement that Lassiter could be almost positive he'd heard his partner utter to herself when she thought she was alone. He might have imagined that the sentiment was about him, but it was hard to ignore—though he did his damnedest—that she spent her days pouring her energy into getting him ship-shape. And still, he was resisting. Couldn't help it.

_Was Saul's ancestry murderous?_ Lassiter chewed his lip, remembering one of many searing dialogues he had gotten into with the killer. _Was this . . . grandfather . . . a participant? Did he . . . even exist? Or was his existence, and his old tall tales, perfectly crafted lies? _

But why . . . why did violence follow almost any insistence in which Lassiter retorted negativity towards what might only be a fictional character lurking in the killer's mind?

Lassiter tried to clear his head. He had many open cases, the file folders stacked on his desk. He knew he should focus on them, follow his partner's silent and not-so-silent advice to retrieve his old lifestyle. What a kicker, wasn't it? She wanted him back, just as he had been, before? Carlton could almost smile at that. (Though he often wouldn't admit that there was anything wrong with the way he usually behaved, she had still stepped up to the plate often enough to call him on it that further dismissal of it would only be childish. And they already had a consultant who was childish enough—perhaps stuck in a permanent state of willing regression. He refused to stoop to _that_ level.)

He had a few specific reasons in his intensive, all consuming quest that he needed to have confirmed. They were not optional; he couldn't go on and on and on forever not knowing. Lassiter had not thought as far as what to do with the information once it was attained; would it bring peace or merely open another door for another quest?

But he couldn't sleep-couldn't-eat-couldn't-focus anymore; he had to know. His eyes were bloodshot on a daily basis, his features drawn, ashy, and he was losing weight. He lived on mostly coffee and whatever O'Hara dropped in front of him because he kept forgetting the desire to eat. Like his passion to fight other people's crimes, it had just dwindled down to almost nil.

_Had Saul Grant been a born killer? A born-again killer? Did he have a soul? Was he deranged of mind while "sane" of action—or was he a sane man who chose to kill?_

The questions ate at Lassiter. He felt that—knew that—when these questions related to any other victim of any other crime, he had always simply written off the criminals as head sick sociopaths, remorseless, unfit to interact with average, law-abiding citizens. Then, when it wasn't about him—down to such a nasty level—it made perfect sense to feel like that and sweep whatever loose ends the victims' families demanded closure from under the rug. Closure was their problem, once he had closed his cases. But now he wasn't so sure. He still felt he'd done right by bringing the criminals to justice, but it was near impossible to write Saul off as "just disturbed" or as a "sociopath considering himself above the law". It didn't feel right.

Another question niggling among these was that Saul had told him that the two of them were more alike that Lassiter would ever consider to admit. Loners, lone wolves, solid but solitary men, handsome enough to attract many pretty womenfolk, though laden with a sour disposition which soon drove the women away. Friendless. Respected but hated. Driven. Drifters. Killers. He'd spoken of this at length, how what he did was just like what Lassiter did, only Saul did it with a knife and Lassiter with a gun. Tools of the trade, quick in the hand when needed, administered with precision on situations by the professionals which steered them.

_Was he . . . could he . . . be . . . ?_ Early on, when he tried to seek answers to his now sorted questions and also separate all of the tortures he remembered so well, he experienced periods of blackouts. Sometimes, there would be gaps in his memories as if he'd fallen asleep, and he'd wondered if hadn't _literally_ blacked out because of the strain. He briefly considered asking for pills, but realized quickly that a psychiatrist would have to prescribe them—and that professional would have to know why. (He had put in the bare minimum asked of reporting to a psychiatrist, just enough to get him back on the job—and oddly enough, Chief Vick had not yet pressed for more.) Lassiter knew his hands would shake reaching for the bottle of pills, and that alone would be enough to halt him from taking any. Instead, he forced himself to start slower, only thinking on one question at length until he was tired, either mentally or physically. This process was just as agonizing for him as the overwhelming blur of memories and questions and pain which made no sense and had no reason, but he eventually stopped blacking out.

It may have helped a small bit too that he started talking to his partner—not so much about what had happened, or about his need-to-know questions, but just little things. A lot of the time, she just listened; he did notice, after much too long, that she wasn't as cheery or talkative as she had been, that she often did not offer advice. And though it embarrassed him to say anything to her, even the mundane things: doubts about returning to work, the lessened mobilization due to his injuries, the hints of a bad dream, he often felt better after speaking to her. Even when she didn't have much to say back. He never let it show, that he felt better; it was better for her to think nothing had changed, wasn't it? That nothing had changed with him . . . he was the same Head Detective Carlton Lassiter he was before all this. Let her believe this; he could be strong for her sake, he decided.

And just what was he supposed to do now? Once he'd discovered himself awake and his mind slowly revealed to him he was in a hospital to recover, he realized he was alive, that he was going to live.

Going to have to live with all that.

And once he learned it, live with his young female partner facing off with Saul in order to save him. But what if . . . what if he had bled to death anyway? Lassiter had felt a cold prickling enter his stomach, seizing him so that he had to fall back against his pillows, so that he reached for his stomach with his most damaged arm. He stared at it, his wrist bound tightly with with reams of gauze. Underneath the stiffness, a tickle, minute, but it was a little reminder, even so early, that his body was going to heal. That's what the body did when it could. But the mind . . . He'd sighed, feeling a different kind of weakness—not quite weak because he'd managed to survive, or because he needed others to come to his aid—an angry weakness. Wasn't he better than that? Better than letting a criminal get that much inside his head? Worse even than "letting" the criminal slide the blade under his skin. Bleeding . . . he'd done so much, and inside his head, none of the wounds had been sealed up, bandaged smartly, or itched to heal. He'd gulped, not knowing what to do with a quick flare of fear.

Lassiter cleared his throat, forcing him to focus on his workspace, a trick that lasted a few seconds before he started to drift again.

She was the only one he could really say anything to. And even then, he wasn't entirely certain why he saw her as a "safe zone"; perhaps it was simply because they were friends and because she already knew about his unsavoriness. Because she called him on things all the time; because she had become his guide point; if he ran some things by her that he considered good, she would tell him the straight up shit whether it was good or the worst idea he'd ever had since yesterday.

Still, it wasn't long after his return that he found himself on the wrong end of her intense affection. The first time it happened, Carlton was too startled to form rational thought; later, he'd scrutinized what had happened until he could "rationally" chalk it up to what he had secretly termed "intense affection". Because of this—and ironically, because of their bonding over what they both considered self-failures—Carlton had let himself draw in, understanding at some level that at the base of his partner's aggression was her need to help him. If he had to endure her at her worst, he at least figured she was doing it out of care.

He'd never had a friend like this; had limited exposure with people in his life who had the enthusiasm or wish to care about him. Whatever niggling behind his ears and eyes warning him that something could be off with his partner he did his best to ignore.

Still, if he'd learned anything from past events, he knew he couldn't ignore red flags and blatant warnings forever. In fact, he probably should have said something right away, but he'd come to realize he was actually _flattered_ by her attention—that she still thought so highly of him after . . . everything. But this could also mean he wasn't seeing what he should be seeing as a detective; had he been so distracted since he'd become part of a crime that he really _couldn't_ see it?

After all, had he ever "reciprocated" her attention, he might have been facing charges. But Lassiter considered it was only a little thing, little to worry about in the long run. He would take what he could get.

He had made the mistake of mentioning in front of her that sometimes he felt he was still breathing in the killer's air, that he could turn a corner and encounter his past waiting for him in a darkened alleyway, propped up in a pool of shadow, or even puttering about in what should be a harmless, well-lit, even peopled space. In his sleep, he was no match. The first couple months of recuperation in his apartment had found Lassiter almost "afraid" of the dark—afraid of stupid things he felt he shouldn't fear. He knew, rationally, that there would be no horror film reincarnation; that Saul would not turn up in his kitchen to clamp his hand around Lassiter's throat, cutting him just so with his blade.

She'd risked it at work too, the first time. They were alone when he'd said it, sitting at his desk as she stood next to him. "You don't know," he'd said, not attempting to lord something over her; it had just come out this way.

Juliet had slapped him, not hard enough to jerk his head, but the shock was just as great. In turn, Lassiter had jerked his head in her direction, his jaw slackened further when he saw her hand still raised, a fierce expression stretching her features strangely. She did not apologize. "So tell me," she'd said instead, dropping her hand finally to cross her arms.

Lassiter, in the moment, told himself what had just happened had not happened. He had recognized the edge of voice; she was challenging him not to be weak—unless she had some morbid fascination to know the inter-workings of Saul's special torments. "H-his—his name was Saul," Lassiter said, ignoring the stutter of his voice. He brought fingers to touch the red spot on his cheek, waiting for his partner to come to her senses. "He was my killer—"

Juliet's hand snaked out and snatched him by his chin. She bent her face close to his and whispered sharply in his ear, "You're alive, Carlton." Then she let go and stalked away, leaving her befuddled partner to his own devices.

The occurrence was so surreal—and had no witnesses—that Lassiter could have almost believed he'd fallen asleep at his desk, had a nightmare, and subsequently awakened, dazed. Later, when she'd dropped off a coffee, her mouth was bent into a smile and he agreed that he had imagined the whole thing. Until she reminded him that she was there whenever he wanted to talk.

He found himself staring her sideways, a touch of shock parting his lips. Was it possible? She looked softer, almost incapable of becoming violent. But then he saw the dark blue fierceness of her eyes. He felt himself nodding, and made himself not reach for his cheek.

After that, an entire week of their new normalcy. But it wasn't the last time; and it made had him seriously consider opening up to her, which, he told himself, was messed up, but still, he reasoned with himself, he felt he owed her something.

He . . . wouldn't have to tell her everything. Not . . . all of it. Not . . . ever. He faltered, uncertain of which path to go down. _Did_ he . . . owe her something? Or was it best to keep his silence—to . . . keep Saul to himself? Lassiter's lip curled into a sneer. Even he could recognize how unhealthy this thought was. Maybe then . . . maybe just a little then. See . . . see what she could or couldn't handle. If she wasn't willing, he guessed she would let him know. Lassiter winced.

Never, never in his lifetime did he expect—or fear—his partner turning to such means, especially the only one he ever got to know this well—her demands that he keep on living. Such fire—too hot to even look at, let alone touch—to hot to garner warmth from, only worry that the element at war would just melt everything in its path, burn it up or down, make transformations of frail objects to shapeless piles of ash. Still, he had no choice. She was reaching for him over this bonfire glare, and he knew that he had to lean in for her, no matter how much it hurt him, how it changed him.

# # #

She felt the room tilt and she wasn't even drunk, or sick, with any other explainable excuse. In the corner of her eye, she was blinded by red but resisted looking at it full on. She knew this color often—lately—had its horrible way with her. _I'm Juliet,_ she thought, as the darkest forces raged in her head. _I'm Juliet._ Just to remind herself. She had no middle name, so she could not claim this to be her _real_ name, act out accordingly. _I am Juliet, for a while. Just this way._

He didn't tell her no; he must have assumed the "no", but she had pretended to be deaf. Or worse, he welcomed it. She paused, truly frightened, considering this. These thoughts made her want to run to him, put him in her best headlock, clamp tight.

She really . . . didn't want to lose him. How odd, how odd, when he was the most pessimistic person she had ever encountered. But he was still . . . her anchor. She measured her improvement by him, by his standards. And now that his standards were . . . practically devastated, she was at a loss. How selfish, how selfish she was, truly, inside. No one could ever see this. She deleted the words she'd typed and retyped what was plainly objective, what _anyone_ could have said. She ignored what she was doing, the way she was treating him. He was here. This was all that mattered.

If she lost him to someone else . . . to another partner, she was still going to worry. She believed in forever friendships; she still believed, on some level, that she and the Chief were friends. She believed, in spite of being told by the Chief that it was near to impossible as a female officer to make and keep friends, that she could do it and still be respected. She felt . . . responsible for him. The only other person in Santa Barbara she could claim this vehement responsibility for was . . . was Shawn. She clenched her jaw. What a mistake. What a terrible mistake. No. She must . . . hold onto Carlton. Why didn't he . . . let her in? She was confounded by it. Subconsciously, she found a way. And he couldn't say no. _Why didn't he say no? _A part of her knew, at a basic level, what she was doing was horrible. But Juliet couldn't help feeling a connection to him through the violence she administered. It was . . . her only way. She didn't second guess it until much later, until she second guessed herself, what she had done, if it was the right or wrong thing. By then, she was in moral limbo, re-guessing all of her actions until she fell into restless sleeps, waking suddenly, not remembering her dreams; other times, remembering too well.

So many times, Juliet replayed the idiosyncrasies in her head—like her yelling match with Shawn, her ferocious demands that he tell her the exact whereabouts of Lassiter—_yesterday_. She remembered this version of herself when she displaced herself from the memory: pretending she was an interloper, a stray, a glance happened to be caught. Her stomach tight; she could remember this version of herself too well: she was The Big Bad Wolf with teeth like razors, ready to gobble up Little Red Lying Spencer whole—no, no. She had been her active detective self, taking on the traits her partner would be proud of in his absence—while Shawn had been splitting at the seams before her, bloodied, stammering. He was not at all his cool, collected self—his voice had been wavering, his eyes scared and wild.

And still, he'd tried to lead her on.

Juliet thought about this. So many times, she had dissected their conversation—though it was a blur of walking through underwater muck. She remembered that Shawn had told her the scenario was different—she was not the fairy tale villain, and for once in an entire lifetime, Shawn had not been at the center of the tale. Instead, Shawn told her the wolf was not in the room with them. He was at least a half an hour drive from them—and he was the same wolf who had attacked and ripped apart five victims prior to . . . clamping his teeth around Lassiter's throat, dragging him towards what would be hours of solid torment.

While she had no idea—though she'd had big, unfounded ideas that something was wrong. Juliet gritted her teeth, hating herself for ignoring her detective instincts. The whole time, Lassiter had been relatively close—a drive away but not a hike. With the pedal to floor, she'd cut the ETA in half. Within range—god, she hated herself. Why had it not occurred to her that Lassiter was missing? He had been missed—and the feeling had dug its talons into the base of her skull. _Why had she not once considered that he had gone to the address of the anonymous tip? _

When Shawn uttered the numbers, Juliet had been hit—a shock that lit up her insides. The serial killer left no survivors.

Had she known, she would have not hesitated to drive out there immediately—even if the tip was another dead end. Even if it earned her irritation from her partner; all of the other tips they had they took seriously and checked out together. Juliet was hurt, stupidly, and much after the fact, that he would make such a potentially dangerous errand alone. That he would wait to call for backup because he had—a minute detail he had spared for her—fallen under the cold spell of the building that rose before him, with its maze-like paved paths—and by the time he saw a person—likely a man—disappearing fast around a corner, his destiny had been locked in place. This was the place where he was going to die.

He'd been heavily sedated when he told her this, his eyes alternating between searching her face and searching the ceiling. The killer struck, he'd told her, in the seconds that he was calling her—sneaking up behind him with wet footsteps—shoving him through a door, down into a dark room. That was, according to the report, where he'd twisted his ankle—landing awkwardly on it as he tried to gain his footing in the dark, earthen space.

Juliet had gone back to look at the structure in daylight, solitary, an interloper—feeling a bit like a lost child when she got out of her car, while she walked down the maze of paths, as if to retrace her partner's journey. She tried to imagine it raining—the rain's unforgiving pelting, her own clothing soaked through, shivering, goose bumps covering her wet skin, fending off hungry bugs while trying to get her hands to stop shaking long enough to retrieve her gun.

She couldn't quite feel it, what he must have felt—this phantom beckoning, a whisper of demand:_ "I am just inside. Come. Get me." _(She guessed; this was not something Lassiter had vocalized—but it was enough for her to investigate after he mentioned the inexplicable allure.) This could have been the thrill of the hunt; every good police officer wore this thrill as proudly as they wore their badges—though it was an idea that those who were not in law enforcement could not grasp as easily. Lassiter lived to serve "Sweet Lady Justice"—and to perform this service, he had to catch the criminals—give chase when required. If it was only a chore, none of them would be compelled to approach it with passion—and all of the criminals of the world would get away with it, every time.

Maybe she couldn't feel it now because she knew the danger had passed—she had been the one who killed the danger. She didn't want to go inside, but she made herself stay, trying to understand what had made Lassiter be so certain that the serial killer that had seemed like a ghost to them was physically here. Lassiter was paranoid but not superstitious; he liked facts, not tall tales.

She cleared her throat again. Sometimes, he needed a reminder.

# # #

How much time had passed, Henry wondered, when his own disappointment and resentment of Shawn's recent absence switched over to unease—when it prompted him that he should try harder to reach out, get in touch—find Shawn, find out what . . . what had gone unsaid?

The day was another ordinary one where he sat at his kitchen table, drinking coffee, reading the paper, feeling content and energized by the morning sun.

The question disguised as an answer creeped by the walls, slinked clumsily across the floor like a child wanting for stealth. It tapped his knee, then raised on its tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

_Shawn._ Just once.

Henry recalled that a good chunk of weeks had gone by with almost no word; he had called before that, heard Shawn's voice on the phone, but the voice had been too thin. And it had not been telling him much. Shawn had also refused dinner invitations—at least two—three?—with weak explanations. Actually, as Henry thought about it, _he_ had been the one to fill in the blanks that Shawn left—a hot date, movie night with Gus, a cut and dry private consultant case, and other things Henry had invited on the spot. The back of his neck prickled with ache. Shawn had not denied he'd had plans already, but he had hardly confirmed them either.

What—if there was something—might he be hiding? And why . . . didn't he want to talk about it?

_Should I have pressed him more, that night?_ Henry wondered. Then he wondered if he should call Gus—and if Gus would even tell him anything.

Maybe tonight, he would see if they were both free to come to dinner. Seeing them here together, eating and drinking and laughing would surely put his unease in perspective—show him he had felt his stomach drop, felt cold on a perfectly sunny day, for no reason at all.

Henry had brought Shawn to Shawn's childhood home after his treatment and quick discharge at the hospital. Shawn had been despondent, listless, but not listening to a word Henry said—this was usually the usual, but this time—Shawn hadn't made many attempts to speak, either over Henry or just to spout random trivia. Henry had worried silently that his son hadn't resisted for even a second when he pulled his ancient truck into the driveway of his home. Shawn remained in the cab, staring at the front of the house for a bit before finally fiddling with the door handle. His leg and corresponding arm had needed a few minor stitches, and he had—Henry noticed, as Shawn slept—some disconcerting bruising along his neck. But Shawn had been tight-lipped.

And Gus hadn't been . . . there. Hadn't called once. And strangely enough, Shawn hadn't called him. Henry didn't know what to make of it. Shawn didn't stick around for too long; Henry felt blessed to get almost two full days before Shawn vanished. Henry assumed he got a ride to the station to pick up his mostly mangled bike. He assumed it was Gus.

He'd wanted to . . . follow up, wanted to reach out, but he just hadn't.

It took him a few weeks to even admit to himself how unnerved he'd been to see Shawn that way, like a ghost self, barely clinging to the walls, almost afraid to speak. And now, Henry swallowed a lump, he had lost more time.

# # #

Norton, New Mexico—Lassiter stared at the three words until his vision blurred. He froze when he felt Saul's breath on the back of his neck, and the killer's voice reminding him of something important—possibly key—to discovering more. He listened as Saul confided,

_"Don't get me wrong, I loved New Mexico, but there's only so much stale blood I could take. Didn't find my heart there, no siree. And before that, Nevada—I really thought she was gonna be the one. But turns out it was sweet, sweet Cali—shoulda known it from the start, shouldn't I? Though I was starting to banish my hopes. Yes, I've been looking for my heart for a while—granddad's tales told me—"_

_"Let me guess, you come from a long line of killers, like the Manson family—" _Lassiter remembered his retort had led to a slap, but he'd continued on anyway, riling up the killer as much as he could. It had been important, during the ordeal, to keep the killer engaged, talking, no matter how much violence against him came with it. He'd wanted to . . . live, after all.

_"You ain't got no business talking ill of my granddad, of my kin. My kin's of no concern to you. You mention them again and I'll make you real sorry. And it's too soon for that." _

It had been a promise Saul had been intent to keep.

Them. Saul had said "them". _"I loved New Mexico." _Lassiter shivered, turning his head sharply towards a window. He wondered what Saul had meant by "stale blood", yet almost didn't want to know. Though he kept it secret—and endured it professionally, he wasn't immune to a few episodes here and there which twisted his guts enough to induce vomit. The killer had alluded to murders in Nevada; Lassiter moved his mouse to the Google search bar, typing in "unsolved murders Nevada" before realizing he had no timeframe or specific area in which to narrow down his search.

This was something which concerned O'Hara—something she had helpfully pointed out to him. She worried he was throwing what remained of his life into a possibly endless, unsolvable search. A search for what, he couldn't even put into words for her. Not fully; what he had offered was barely an outline—with no foreseeable conclusion or goal—but truthfully, he barely had the words to explain it to himself.


	3. Chapter 3: Stay Awhile To Share My Grief

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to the _Back to the Future_ movies, or the Lifetime TV network.

Author's Note:**Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and much appreciated!** Many thanks to those who have reviewed so far—I'm so happy to hear your thoughts and feel blessed to have your wonderful encouragement—means the whole world! :) Enjoy!

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**Chapter Three: Please, Can You Stay Awhile To Share My Grief? **

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**# # #**

She could see it sometimes, even when she wasn't dreaming—twisting against her sheets, the blankets knotted in her fists. She could see it even during mundane activities: walking down the hall towards the vending machines; opening a desk drawer in search of a paperclip; closing the front door of her apartment, coming or going. It would always make her pause and she would watch it like a movie, the action in 3D: the roar and flash of the bullet leaving its chamber, the muted grunt of the killer as the bullet hit his flesh, charging in; the smell of gunpowder and blood, sweat and earth and fear ripe in her nostrils. Her partner lying on his back, bound to the earth like a cult sacrifice, sliced up and bloody.

She caught a glimpse of the man's dark eyes—already deadened—seeing the last of her as his body reeled back, away from Lassiter. This was her favorite part of the "movie", knowing that it was more than possible the killer's very last sight was of her fading form, knowing, even for a half second, that she had appeared to fulfill her partner's desperate proclamations of her inevitable rescue.

Or so she choose to believe. She liked to feel triumphant over the killer. She liked to ignore that the killer had likely mourned the sweets stolen from his lips as he went back for more.

_One. Last. Taste._

Her breath always caught; she had, before this, realized that Lassiter had come to mean a lot to her as a partner, as a friend, and as a good man she respected, despite his continuing harshness, his uncouth mannerisms, and his general lack of of social adaptation. These were still works in progress, she told herself. She realized she had never been so committed to a partner or friend on the job as she was to him. But what she felt towards him now following . . . following . . .

She saw it again, felt the force of her fellow officers yanking her away from Lassiter's side as he lay on the ground, unconscious and blood soaked. Was it so wrong now to feel a special protective need when it came to him?

Juliet truly wanted to believe that she'd caught a flash of fear in the killer's eyes as he died, as he realized he was caught. She was as sure of herself with a gun in her hand as Lassiter was with his own favorite Glocks; but she had still fought off a moment's hesitation as she'd given the killer a chance to surrender.

The shot was quick; death. She had stupidly worried that her partner would be embarrassed by her actions, had worried he couldn't handle getting his ass saved by his female junior partner. But just the opposite had happened; he had confessed to her how much she meant.

There would be no trial; the legacy of a murderer had been ended with its last in line.

This way, the pressure was less. The audience less. (And shockingly, Shawn Spencer had no valueless two cents to add to the pot; he had remained, eerily, silent.)

Juliet ran her tongue across her teeth, frowning at the sour taste in her mouth. She wondered if it was irrational to hate a dead man as much as she hated Saul Grant—and if the reasons of her hate made any sense at all.

Hate—had this been the cause of her partner's outburst, or had it been caused by her own naivety—pushing him too hard in the beginning, barely two weeks after his release from the hospital, into telling her what happened? It shouldn't have happened; she knew she shouldn't have been that person—he had already been in a horrible situation where he'd been forced to fight for his life.

But the outburst—which had been more incoherent yelling at the furniture in his apartment than anything directed at her—had told her so much without words, so much more than, she guessed, Lassiter would offer a therapist; only Juliet could push his buttons because she knew he had been on the other side. She made a vow as she'd left, wordlessly, after his rage had fallen into quiet staring out his window, that she would tread more carefully, that she would be less confrontational, that she would try to give him the space he needed. She considered that it might be years before he could open up to her—this made her heart ache.

It was kind of peculiar; more often, it was Shawn Spencer pushing Lassiter's buttons—eliciting a response of rage, or exasperation, or dismay, making Lassiter feel—and Juliet feel in the after-wash of spent emotion—that he had no chance to win.

But Shawn hadn't come around in a long time; Juliet remembered she had filed away the thoughts to eventually check on him, but she had kept them on the back burner because she was still unsettled he hadn't just—Juliet clenched a fist. Why had he made her playing a guessing game about where Lassiter was? If he had just stated that the serial killer who had already killed five people in Santa Barbara had gotten the jump on her partner, was cutting him open as they spoke—and just where to find him— Her knuckles turned white.

This wasn't how Shawn operated, she relented. Maybe . . . maybe he had been working hard to tell them, but she had been having a hard time hearing him. Or listening to him. His methods instead had been to recreate pain—and to reach into the unknown bounds of the spirit world where the last known victim was apparently waiting for Lassiter to join her.

Juliet frowned severely. Remembering that day—some parts of it—put an incredible strain on her. She did feel bad for poking Shawn, for yelling in his face as if Lassiter's disappearance was somehow his fault. _Way to kill the messenger,_ she'd scolded herself, but her anger had not been resolved towards the psychic. The address . . . the address must have been on the tip of his tongue, ready to roll off. He'd told her immediately when she asked—demanded—

She sighed. It was going to take time, she thought. Lots of things took time.

Shawn would come around, would come back, all on his own, she decided, shoving memories of him as far back into her head as they would go.

# # #

He was still having the same dream; every night for weeks now.

_The smack was a hard thud, shocking Shawn from his overwhelmed surprise to see Lassiter on this feet—his eyes zoning in with breakneck speed every sign of abuse the detective had received since waking up that morning. The superficial scraps and cuts from shaving or falling on his face had been further assaulted; the smell of fresh blood was thick and wrinkled Shawn's nose. _

_He cried out as Lassiter's eyes rolled back at the same time the detective rocked forward, slamming into Shawn. He had the good reaction time to pull his arms from his sides—what he wouldn't have had the seconds to do if he'd been the one getting slapped—and caught the detective as best as he could. The dead weight of Lassiter's unconscious body chilled Shawn; any nervous jokes his mind conjured up to deal stammered away in his throat. _

_The killer nodded in their direction, standing above them. "As if I had my doubts," he said with a chuckle. Shawn flinched with the sharpness of the killer's humor but continued to help settle Lassiter on the floor. "'Course he's the right one to die for me."_

_The killer watched Shawn's frantic movements with mock interest, amused for a short time that Shawn was trying to help. It didn't last. The muscles in his arms, neck and jaw tightened fiercely as he spat out, "You ain't gonna save him, if that's what you think."_

_Shawn tried to ignore the man, to focus on Lassiter and the newly exposed open side wound. He felt a rush of breath leave him, then another, another, realizing what he was seeing. _

"_He's mine—he's stayin', and I'ma gonna have his heart." The words, the last of which he whispered loudly, hung in the air like thorns, pins, needles, broken glass. _

As he had many nights before, Shawn woke with a start after these words, his armpits and forearms soaked with sweat. His teeth chattered together, and he fought to separate what had really happened from the trappings of dream. It was perfectly vivid—so much so that everything could have happened just that way—but the killer hadn't uttered much beyond _"As if I had any doubts" _and _"He's mine—he's stayin'"._

_So . . . so, where had the rest come from? _Shawn scrolled through his memories, hating to do so, wishing there was another way. He'd kill for a time-traveling DeLorean right about now. Hell, if he'd had one to begin with, he could have gone back and stopped himself from . . .

But Shawn suspected it might not have mattered. He would have just sabotaged himself another way—probably putting both Lassiter and Jules in danger instead, a scenario which left the killer alive . . . and likely quickly free to get out on bond. He had been the type to kill, to kill again, and again—Shawn couldn't forget the look in his eyes which had "communicated" this to him.

A memory stopped his search into the past._"I would never wish this on you."_ Lassiter's hush, insisting that he run away. And after that, it was practically an hour of constant insisting—even after he'd been slapped, knocked unconscious, and had his stab wound exposed to Shawn. Even after it looked too dangerous to run—because the killer had guarded both of them with his enormous hunting knife.

Even though he'd rather not, Shawn made him focus on the killer, his pacing, his nervous anger at Shawn's presence. . . .

_"Forget about helping me—you're just not capable." Damn it. _His distant guilt still fouled up his plans find the words from the nightmare—because Shawn had more than a feeling that the killer had said them, just in another context.

Shawn fought his guilt, determined this time to find the context. The killer, out of the shadows, stalking towards them, telling Shawn he had plans. He'd listened to the killer talk to Lassie as if Shawn wasn't there—despite answering some of Shawn's questions in the process.

"_The Dee-tech-tive stays with me." _There. Hadn't been that hard, to materialize the killer's voice into his head—when he was awake. It was no victory, he decided. Panicking, Shawn slammed the door he'd opened in his mind. The last thing he wanted was the killer talking to _him_ now.

Now that he was awake again, Shawn went back to the questions—they were endeavors to banish the killer's voice, to bring him answers.

These questions were the immediate ones; they were months old. Surely, the killer had taken a _chance_ on _him_ because he wanted the potential of another victim . . . living, out there, after he'd finished with his current one.

_Why . . . bring me back to life?_ Shawn wondered, a several times repeated question. _Was it because . . . I had something left to do here? _He got a reminder that his living had kept Lassiter from being murdered . . . had kept Juliet from losing . . . people she actually cared about. _Juliet._

This was the almost perfect comforting word. Shawn could hold onto this word; it could calm him enough to still his thoughts; to bring him sleep.

His nightmares afterward . . . she had no say.

They should . . . be as they always had. All of them, not just he and Gus. Team Psych . . . they should still be this. He hadn't been around;_ couldn't_ be around; still, there was something keeping Shawn in Santa Barbara. He_ couldn't_ leave. More than ever, in the entirety of his life, Shawn was _glued_ here. Not only couldn't he . . . he _didn't_ _want_ to run.

Was it solely . . . Gus? These things he couldn't sort out? That they should always be best friends . . . no matter how hard the other pulled at the reins; why . . . hadn't Gus come around by now? Why had . . . Gus . . .? Shawn's face scrunched up. He desperately wanted to lay blame; surely, this was in no way _his_ fault. None of it. Not even Lassiter's near murder. Not even Juliet's strange widow-ship. Widow implied marriage of sorts; he couldn't be so reluctant to turn up his nose at the possibility of the two of them . . . in some sort of very future common-law situation. He guessed she was . . . in ways . . . married to her career and thus, married to . . . Lassiter. This was more a marriage of convenience than anything else, Shawn decided. He was definitely more than willing to be Juliet's pleasure on the side. If she would still have him after all this time. After what he had done. Would she still take him if she knew he had almost had a hand in killing her . . . "husband"?

_If this were a movie on _Lifetime_, _Shawn considered briefly,_ he would have already been nominated for an Oscar by now. This was the stuff extramarital affairs could only _dream_ of on that channel. And that was saying _way_ too much. _

It was always the same; when he got close to sober again, he chided himself for his truly ridiculous musings—especially since he had no Gus there to either shut him down or stroke his ego—a feat Gus often accomplished with a simple look or a handful of words. Just by saying his name. "Shawn." This was a simple gesture that could rein him in. His own name in the mouth of his best friend.

In this space, he had remembered things _just as they were_. There was no detached twist, no spin. They just were. And they were staring him in the face. He knew he should quit thinking about all of it, at least for a week, just to see how it would really be. But those first few weeks he'd gone stone cold sober, and they'd been no picnic either. There was no happy medium.

No, no happy "medium" at all.

It wasn't that he had begun to lean on alcohol for problem solving; it was that his thoughts just would not turn off; even when he fell to sleep out of exhaustion from non-stop thinking. He often couldn't concentrate long enough to finish one beer—being sober for Shawn meant being devoid of frivolity, exaggeration, or speculative imagination—these things of which his very essence relied on. Sometimes he wished he could shed his skin, climb out of himself, start again, with less dirt on his face and less lies in his mouth. But he couldn't go back.

Feeling drained, Shawn sat down on the floor, staring up at the makeshift table where he'd left the quarter of pineapple smoothie he'd been uninterested in finishing. He stared at the cup for a while, eventually allowing himself to have the moment to reflect on leaving his apartment while it was still daylight. But he was so tired now. He made a quick mental note to make a sandwich when he woke, slumping fully to the floor now. He wished for blankness, no dreams.

# # #

Gus stared at his phone, his chest tight, his throat tight, his eyes tight. This ritual had become too familiar—and he'd taken to expecting the device to change his mind—bring him to call Shawn, or bring Shawn to call him. Just a few days ago, Gus had found out Shawn had not run away, but had made a ghostly effort to remain in Santa Barbara following . . .

Following what? Gus was in the dark. It had been months, an unheard of amount of time for them to go without communication. Even when he'd been traveling the world, Shawn had still found a way to keep in touch—even it was solely from his end, sending postcards, making middle of the night calls, whatever. But he'd always made the effort.

Following what? Gus had asked himself again, to delay his guilt. He was half of a successful private detective agency duo—he could unravel it, he could piece together the clues, get his bearings—and then, only then, go and make the dreaded confrontation.

Shawn had been silent for months, not calling once to scold, to whine, to pester, to plead, to taunt, to entice, to apologize. To beg, to trick, to test. To just . . . say hello. Say I miss you. Say where are you? Say dude, I need you. At first, Gus couldn't care less, when days stretched into weeks, when one month passed, then two. His anger had pushed him to keep thriving, and he burned with it until it brought him a soured relief. It told him he'd washed his hands of Shawn Spencer. Good riddance. No more wasted days, no more crazy adventures, no more constant worry, no more fear at losing his own freedom or life due to Shawn's harried, reckless antics.

No more . . . lifelong friendship.

Gus told himself he was okay with this. There were plenty of people he was sociable with at work. Plenty of women he'd flirted with on his routes. He had a great life outside of Shawn . . . outside of Psych.

Psych . . . Gus wondered if he should board up the windows; there was an uneasy evidence that Shawn had not been on the premises for weeks, in spite of rent still being due. Bitterly, Gus had paid both shares, unable to get past his jumbled emotions to jolt Shawn into getting it together.

A few different cashiers and patrons at one of their favorite breakfast spots had told him, when he'd asked, that Shawn had been frequenting the smoothie counter—had been for a sporadic time frame for a good few weeks. He came in at all hours, they had told him, his appearance everything from just out of bed to three am insomniac—and he never seemed like he could get his bearings. Hollow, in the eyes, they had said.

Gus's interest had been piqued one day when he'd seen what he was certain was the back of Shawn's form stumbling around a corner, out of sight. Up until then . . . he swallowed guiltily. Up until then, he'd assumed Shawn had taken off, patched up his motorcycle and ran away in shame. Maybe if he'd run away he'd come back.

But why . . . why no calls? Why no visits to the Psych office? Why no breaking into Gus's apartment, sitting in the dark with the lights off—waiting for his friend to get home so they could talk?

Gus looked around the office, unsettled by its stillness. The last time he and Shawn had been in the office together had been a little over two months ago, Shawn sitting at his desk, refusing to tell Gus something that might be important.

The anger had cooled, it sat inside him with the dullness of calloused skin. Gus, now sitting at his own desk, looked across at the vacant space. The chair was still pulled out, but long ago Gus had turned off the laptop which must have been running for days after Shawn's voluntary absence. He tried to focus. He was doing this, he reminded himself, because he needed to reconnect with his best friend. His stupid, stupid, stupid best friend.

And calling . . . it still wasn't an option. He'd tried, pressed the right buttons to dial . . . but he'd hung up quickly. Fear and the ash of anger bound his tongue—what would he say to Shawn? What would Shawn say to him?

Gus thought hard, reaching back to that day—he'd been waiting for Shawn to explain the details of how he _knew_ that the SBPD—with Lassiter as lead—was soon to catch up to the murderer. He had put on a huge spectacle for the IAB agents present in Vick's office—making it cryptic enough so as not to make Vick and Juliet equally suspicious. But it had made Gus suspicious. Shawn had been evasive, uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Right up until Gus blew a gasket and punched him in the stomach a couple of times.

"_I was there, Gus, with the killer."_

Gus frowned. There was a huge disconnect of confusion, worry, and unease in between the being suspicious and the being furious.

But why . . . why had Shawn gone off to a remote location—no, scratch that, Gus thought, shaking his head. How had Shawn known where he was going—what he was going to find? Gus refused to believe that Shawn had gotten "lucky" in finding both the hideout of the killer and Lassiter, who had been, unbeknownst to Gus, unaccounted for for some time.

Gus still didn't know what Shawn had kept from him that day in Vick's office. Crazy with anger, he'd punched Shawn in hopes his best friend would confess, but the only thing that had managed to get Gus's full attention was when Shawn hissed that the killer had Detective Lassiter. It was a solid fact which explained the Head Detective's absence, as well as the tension exuded from Chief Vick and Juliet regarding his whereabouts. Because Shawn had walked into the station of his own violation—albeit still a bloodied mess—Gus knew he had push his anger for Shawn to the side so that Vick and Juliet could get the information.

Shawn knew the killer had Lassiter because he'd been in the same building with—perhaps right under the watchful eye of—of the killer. He knew that Lassiter had been cut and stabbed and mangled because . . . Gus let out a breath slowly through his mouth. Because he must have been near in vicinity to both of them. Close enough to smell the blood, to see it ooze out of Lassiter's many wounds. Gus closed his eyes.

It had taken both women a good five minutes to wrap their heads around Shawn's convoluted story. He himself had had a difficult time following, but had remained silent, unable to join in. Unable to help. He braced himself for the moments when everything clicked—when orders were cast out and action caused them to move en masse, out the door, on the way to follow the breadcrumb trail Shawn had left.

Gus remembered, Juliet had been the first to come around—and she'd snapped just as easily as he had, but for different reasons.

He leaned back in his chair to look at the ceiling. He tried to focus on what Shawn looked like when he limped into the station. Shawn's jeans had been torn up to his knees, and his flannel shirt's arms were shredded, with redness soaked into its sides. Blood pressed out from the legs of his jeans too. It had looked like a look of blood, so even the faint paleness of Shawn's skin and his frantic alertness hadn't dissuaded Gus from considering it wasn't all his.

Gus grimaced; he didn't like thinking about Shawn like that. He felt sicker knowing he'd inflicted further injury on his friend—out of impulse, in betrayal.

How hard would it be for him to take the first step, be the bigger man? Call Shawn and tell him to come down to the Psych office—neutral ground—so they could have a talk? He sighed. Sooner or later, he guessed he would break. Now that Shawn come back from his world traveling and they'd become partners in crime—fighting—it was too hard to pretend that something hadn't been missing from the way he'd led his old life.

# # #

The King of Hearts. Killer. King of Hearts Killer. Lassiter turned the words over in his head slowly, like a piece of meat roasting on a spit. The moniker was, Lassiter decided just as slowly, the wrong name for him. It made the killer seem "cutesy" or cartoonish to anyone who didn't know him or what he had done. He almost wanted to tell this to someone, to say that the "nickname" on the killer's file should be changed. But . . . the appropriate name for Saul, the sum up name, the one that would go into the press, the one the public would learn, even briefly . . . Lassiter stared blankly ahead. This was why these abhorrent killers ended up with quick take names like "Unabomber"; "Zodiac Killer"; "Son of Sam"; "The Green River Killer"—handles for reference until they were caught—even when some first and last names were horrible enough without nicknames: "Ted Bundy"; "Lee Harvey Oswald"; "Charles Manson"; "Lizzie Borden".

"Saul Grant".

"Saul Grant", "The King of Hearts Killer".

Saul Grant.

Didn't . . . didn't have the same ring to it, did it? _"Name's Saul."_ The same burn entered his mind even hearing through the filter of memory—the careless casualness of the proper noun, a first name—real or not. Lassiter had decided, from the second he'd heard the killer say it, that it was real. This man owned his name—might have even been disgusted to learn the moniker Santa Barbara's media had dubbed him.

Where there . . . other monikers, elsewhere? he wondered, typing in "King", "Hearts" and "Murder" into his search engine. The most recent news popped up, everything leading back to Santa Barbara. _"King of Hearts Murderer Dead, Police Intervene."_ Vick had fought as much as she could to keep his name, and then the details of his torture, from the press and public. In the end, she had prepared a vague cluster of sentences which focused more on Saul than on him. He'd taken pains not to learn what went into the papers about him, and had declined to comment on several occasions to several different reporters.

Lassiter blubbered a noise, a squeak or a muted sob, that was sure to draw attention. He pressed a palm against his lips, a blush creeping to the tips of his ears. He stared down, hoping to avoid anyone's wandering eye.

He was aware, as if out of the blue, that nearly everyone in this building must know some of the details of what had happened to him. Or if not specific details than at least that he had been caught and cut up by the city's latest menace. _Him_, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter. Under his desk, Lassiter clenched a fist in shame, humiliation, and annoyance of these weaknesses, that he was thinking about showing them, or was showing them, or that it didn't matter either way—

because everyone _knew_.

It made him . . . want to die.

And this thought alone made him flinch, partially because it had almost happened—his dying—and partially because O'Hara would be very opinionated—to the point of violence—if he spoke it aloud. It was a peculiar thing, having to censor himself in front of her . . . because of what she'd become. What he'd . . . become.

These thoughts made him feel sickest of all. He had an inexplicable yearning to put his head down on his desk, to just stay there, but he resisted the urge, choosing instead to remain stock still. He turned his eyes back to the computer screen, resuming his search.

He still felt the discomfort of blowing up in front of her a few months ago—acting like a child, kicking his own furniture, pulling mug shots of criminals he actually had a plan to catch from his walls as if these acts were supposed to help either of them. During the entire thing, he felt her standing there, watching him, and at any moment he could have easily turned on her—but he couldn't. It wasn't so easy, and anyway, there was nothing in the world that could make him do such a thing. These weren't the old days anymore; she was not his enemy, not his "emotional punching bag"—and he just didn't want to see her get hurt.

But somehow, the incident had helped further communication between them; an eerie turn, he considered. Neither had ventured to speak of it again—possibly because both of them harbored needs to apologize to the other but hadn't the faintest idea of where to start. So shutting up about it worked—but other doors opened.

The two had come to develop an odd—and getting odder—dynamic; for some reason that made little sense to either, it worked. At least, Lassiter thought it did. Or at least, he conceded, it worked for now. The two of them seemed to be living for the moments—moment to moment to moment. It . . . was what it was.

He didn't know what to do with all of his rampant doubts. He was glad he could still reach for his gun, point and shoot and hit the target—like riding a bike. He was glad also that O'Hara was stuck to his side with a special glue—the formula unknown to him, he might never know. His badge still his, his career intact, his rank as it was. The constants—the facts—were easiest to grip, but they were cold truths, and they still came with strings attached. He was afraid to cut any of the strings but he just didn't know where he stood after . . . after Saul. _"Lawman," the killer hissed with a smile. "I'd like to use this now, not while you're getting shut eye." _Lassiter stirred, getting a chill, and wondered if Saul had cut him . . . tasted more blood . . . in the times he'd been out like a light. His stomach lurched. There was no definite way of knowing; he told himself it was better if he never knew.

# # #

She had seen Lassiter flinch, hoping no one was looking—he looked around, hoping no one had seen his moment of weakness. These moments were random to her, when she caught them, but she suspected just about anything could act as a trigger to the past, throwing him back. She wished, in those seconds, she had a rope she could throw out, or a life jacket, or the one right word that would salvage that second and bring him round. But he was suffering before her, and there was nothing she could do.

He didn't know she wanted to do something. Or rather, he didn't know the extent of what she wanted to do. (Straight out asking had failed her—and had made Lassiter into livid mess.) Had he known, he would have done something to dissuade her. He was very persuasive; strangers did his bidding without question, except that she had become almost immune to his subtleties; she could read the little things much too well for his liking. He had given in, partially, accepting that she knew so much about him, given to her part in comfort, part in stress. Still, he could have offered a look, a scowl, harsh words—an easy insult to put her off, make her angry, make her walk away. But Juliet understood, on a level that was barely conscious, that she would still have to turn on her heel, go back, and stay close to his side, no matter what. This was the time he needed her most, even if he wasn't yet aware. She was . . . all he had, whether he liked it or not. Whether she liked it or not. And she did . . . care for him, in ways. She did feel a fierceness towards, feeling razed should anyone . . . get in his way. Was it unhealthy, behaving this way?

Still, she had no one to tell her no. No one with that much guts.


	4. Chapter 4: You Left It With Me Here

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, thoughts, and constructive criticism are welcome and much appreciated. Thank you.

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**Chapter Four: All That's Clear, You Left It With Me Here, In This Souvenir **

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# # #

Underneath the violence, he could only hear bells, tiny, tinkling noise. Then, voices; the bells threading deftly into what he finally determined to be silence.

Bells, or sirens. He was lightheaded, his mouth dry.

Carlton opened his eyes to the gray wee morning hours, staring at the ceiling in his apartment. He had been treated to a dreamless sleep . . . dreamless in that he couldn't remember anything but the bells. He pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the bite of still bandaged skin, held together with stitches until it could knit itself on its own.

His stomach was knotted with foreboding. It was almost too early to get up, almost too late to go back to sleep.

_Yesterday._ That's what it felt like, every edge perfect and sharp. The worst part . . . Lassiter closed his eyes for just a second, a beat longer than a blink. Saul, he felt, was still alive, pulsing through his own blood like an aggressive toxin, a memento.

Lassiter rubbed a hand across his mouth, realizing as his arm twinged that it was the same that had been dislocated, sliced, and drunk from. The same one O'Hara had squeezed hard just a day or two ago in solidarity. He was required to do physical therapy three times a week at a clinic, as well as exercises and treatments at home for both the dislocation and the sprained ankle. He'd done his penance with yet another sling, then a brace, getting to lose it as well as the crutches he'd been instructed to use yet had had too much pride to use them in public just before going to work. They had told him he'd been lucky that nothing—physical—had been broken beyond repair, that he'd suffered only tears and strains, overstretchings and twistings. He hadn't even needed surgery. He'd taken this news silently, glaring at the floor and sneering when they dared not mention in how many places he'd been cut. Or the scars.

The scars were supposedly lucky things too. He had listened with detachment when Vick monologued about scars; Juliet had been present and he'd squeezed her wrist so tightly her hand purpled. The speech hadn't been too long; it had been Vick's way to express her gratefulness that he had not died; so Lassiter dutifully endured it. It had been his first day back and he was sort of her captive audience. Underneath the scar tissue of the reminders, Lassiter _was_ touched by her consolation. It was lucky still (though not expressed) that Saul had known exactly what and where to cut.

Saul had wanted to keep his subject alive, conscious, for as long as he could, choosing when his subject was going to die. He had known how to avoid nerve damage; even in the heat of the moment when he executed the stabbing. He'd liked to see his victim bleed, but knew of other, _better_ ways to inflict harm. With the ones already dead, it hadn't mattered much; they would never have the scars, the stiff muscles, stitches, or a plague of nightmares.

This was partially the reason why Lassiter had allowed Vick to drone on about scars. Saul's presence had cast a spell across the SBPD as a harbinger of death. Lassiter understood that, in a perverse way, Saul had reminded Vick of Lassiter's value as Head Detective. It was a morbid ego boost that Lassiter wished he could ignore, especially because he had gotten into most of the trouble himself. But there was still an amber glow from the Chief's brown eyes—sorrow mixed with pride.

He had hid a painful shudder by jumping to his feet, tugging at Juliet whom he had been unable to let go of. Carlton scrambled; he had to act both parts seamlessly—somber detective and last surviving man—while waiting to be dismissed. Chagrined at the realization he'd been holding onto his partner as if she were a stress toy, he released her with an mumbled apology. She had made him hold her eyes—twin balls of blue flame—until he had been able to nod and look away.

Juliet . . . she meant well, but a part of Carlton feared that she _couldn't_ save him, not from _this_.

He wanted to give her a little without giving her . . . any of it, but the intensity of the blue in her eyes often lent to rest of her features, making her seem angled and precise like a marble sculpture. She wanted to get it out of him, would get it out of him with just a look, or with some tough love.

He knew he was out of his league when it came to stopping her.

The way she came at him was . . . ghostly reminiscent of. . . . She would die if she knew. Or she would deliver a blow that would knock him out for a good few hours. Maybe . . . maybe he deserved that. But now was not the time to tell her.

A conversation between them a few days ago at his apartment—when she'd dropped by, unannounced (though she'd made it seem a casual visit, as if to only discuss the next day's weather)—had sent a new set of gears whirling in his head. He now had another couple of somewhat clandestine projects to occupy his time—and others'—but the projects had also forced him to confront one of the demons (other than the most obvious one) that was still staring him in the face.

Being here . . . being back to work . . . Lassiter swallowed hard. He _wasn't_ back to work, in spite of being at home at his desk in the SBPD. He hadn't the same motivation for current cases as he'd had before. Out there were hundreds, if not thousands, of killers and kidnappers, thieves, carjackers, hijackers, arsonists, stalkers, blackmailers, terrorists, dirty cops and other various assortments of the criminal element; and hundreds, if not thousands, more victims, innocents, and next of kin waiting for the dismissal notifications. There was murder, fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, domestic violence, vandalism, abduction, child endangerment, racketeering . . . and hundreds, if not thousands, of other crimes from the petty to the most serious that all needed his undivided attention, but he couldn't give it to any of them. He was rather surprised that Vick didn't suggest a "divorce" of partnership from O'Hara until he could get his head on straight, but he knew that Vick was keeping them both at arm's length. Lassiter considered why, but hadn't come up with a resolution.

Just as well. He'd had nothing to say.

But now . . . now he decided he must go to her, to make such a far-fetched request.

Should she deny it, he couldn't bear to think about what he would do.

Carlton sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. He thought about O'Hara's recent visit, and was still heavy with the remorse of needing to have her answer the question, needing to know, one way or the other, in spite of the rather fortunate outcome: his survival.

# # #

He didn't know how to say it; after all they'd been through (though it was his norm to blurt everything out), shaping the question into non-accusatory words almost seemed impossible. He couldn't begin it with, "There's something I've been meaning to ask," because she would pick up immediately that this had been sitting on the tip of his tongue since . . . since he'd sent her the message.

He started it with her name, trying to be gentle, but her name sounded like metal on metal to his ears. Juliet looked up, waiting, her breath poised in her cheeks.

Carlton wanted nothing more to swallow it, but he already carried too many grudges. He couldn't afford to have one like this, one so large and between them, festering. He forced himself to explain, telling himself as he did that he _would not yell at her_, no matter the outcome. If she wanted to . . . cry, or punch a wall, or express her apologies again, he would stand back, biting his lip. After he'd said her name, he acknowledged his own failures—not being smart, being seduced by the area, and by the power of stopping a killer. "I should have sent word sooner," he said. "By the time I tried to call you, there wasn't a signal."

Juliet nodded, still waiting.

"It's just, I . . . I . . ."

He couldn't help but notice her body language: her arms tight to her sides, her muscles ready to throw her hands to her face to shield any physical hit he might . . . Carlton's stomach twisted. He couldn't tell her when she looked like that. He was torn for a moment between grabbing her arms and stepping back. He sighed, stepping back.

"I sent you a text message," he confessed, "before I tried to call. Before he pushed me into hell." He hadn't meant to add more details then necessary, but he was confused that she was receiving the "news" with blankness, confusion of her own.

After a few moments, Juliet moved. She swung away, trying to locate her purse. Finding it, she got the phone out before her partner could say another word. "You sent me a text?" she repeated, intent on the screen as she scrolled through. "What did it say?"

"You wouldn't still have it," Lassiter said. "I sent it on that day." He cleared his throat. "It was telling you that I was on the killer's trail."

Juliet was silent, shaking her head, still not looking at him. Her phone had no record of receiving this message. "It's not here," she said.

Lassiter half-shrugged. "You wouldn't have kept it; it's been a few—"

"No," she interrupted, looking up finally, locking eyes with him. "Carlton, I never got your message." She turned the phone towards him, showing him the log of texts from that month, the days before and after too. He took her phone to study it, not noticing, at first, her mouth pulling into a tight frown. "You really thought I'd ignore a message from you? I was . . . you had me so freaked, Carlton. Pulling that disappearing act! I'd tried calling you more than a hundred times!"

Juliet noticed her partner staring at her. She realized her tone had pitched from angry to a tad hysterical; there was a mix of hurt and disbelief in his eyes. A trace of guilt. "All I got was your voice mail," she added quietly. "I . . . you'd been having such a bad day. At first, I thought you went to blow off steam. But when you didn't come back . . ."

The feeling was almost like a sucker punch—self-inflicted. He had been . . . so ready to blame her, but to also forgive her; the twisting of his gut returned. "I knew it," he said quietly, letting himself stumble back, away from her, his long arm holding out her phone. Her fingertips brushed his palm as she took the object, clutching it hard, pulling it to her breast. "I'm . . . a bastard for even considering that."

"For considering that I wouldn't take a text about you chasing a serial killer on your own seriously?" She repeated it to understand it herself, but was unable to harness her biting words.

He nodded, hanging his head. "I just . . . had to know for sure. Hear it from you."

Juliet was considering punching her partner, at least in the arm, as hard as she could. But he was looking like a plush giraffe who had seen too many rinse cycles; there was even stuffing hanging out of a tear in his neck. She bit her tongue, and took in deep breaths to unclench her fists. He hadn't, she realized, been expecting to be the one to apologize; it made her sad to know this. But still, he had, all this time—all that time—thought that she _had_ received the text. That _she_ had ignored him. And he had been relying on her presence heavily; Juliet swallowed hard.

They stood there, staring at each other, Carlton looking like he might crumble. Juliet almost wanted to hug him, but she had to take the moments first—so much to absorb. "You thought I was going to come," she finally said. The statement was weighty. "Sooner," she added.

Carlton nodded. He sucked in air. "But I . . . speculated that you hadn't received it. I knew you—know you—you wouldn't have intentionally not acted if—if you'd known. If you'd heard specifically from me that—"

She nodded. But still he'd thought it. As if he could read her mind, he said, "I spent a lot of time thinking, while I was there. After he'd—" She watched him, by way of his eyes, tumble back into the past, almost as if the killer was here, in the room with them, putting her partner into a Sleeper Hold.

"You never say it," Juliet observed.

"Say what?" Lassiter repeated automatically.

She frowned at herself, trying to imagine herself in his rather large shoes. Would she want to say it? Out loud? In front of her partner? "Never mind," she muttered.

"Say that I was wrong?" Lassiter countered, mistaking her intentions for the statement. He stood up straight, and took a step closer to her. Taking a deep breath, he apologized, adding, "I was wrong. I texted to the wrong number." He was going to add more, but this last sentence made him wonder . . . who did he send the text to? He wondered if he could find out, if the cell phone service provider would give him the records if he asked.

Juliet wandered to a chair, feeling drained of everything. She was trying to remember why she had come here, what perfect reason she had told herself about her own apartment being too dark, too quiet, too cloying. She imagined the shadows greeting her wordlessly as she opened her door, her feet soundless on her carpet as she went to her bedroom, crawled under the covers after removing only her shoes.

For a few minutes, Lassiter was high on his own thoughts, feeling like a real detective again for the first time in a while. He mapped out an outline in his head, planning as many steps and excuses as might be called for. He felt like he could twist arms, bark orders, see the subordinates scramble to do their jobs under the gaze of his watchful, glaring eye.

Then, his thoughts jerked abruptly to the present, and he was humbled by the sight of his seated partner, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Almost against his will, he went to his couch and took a seat across from her, compelled to look at her, to see her. While he was not regretful for asking the question or getting the answer, it upset him that he had to hurt her to do it.

"O'Hara," he began quietly, seeing her chin lift towards him. Her eyes were swimming with pain. He wanted to keep her from tears, anything he could do to ease her hurt. He laid himself bare, opening up with something she _did not need to know._

"He got into my head," Lassiter began. His eyes flicked away from her; even the small act of conjuring a single memory of Saul's internal torment brought the killer to life, brought him here to stand in front of Lassiter, to taunt and lie, to bend close and hiss his hot breath in Lassiter's ear. Lassiter fought to keep his flinch minimal. "He said he would kill me more times than I could count." He huffed. "But when he . . . he pulled a suicide king from his pocket, I thought—"

He frowned bitterly, knowing his personal reason for sharing this with her. Though he wasn't looking at her, Lassiter felt O'Hara staring at him with rapt attention. He soldiered on. "He folded the card, then he—he shoved the card into my mouth."

O'Hara's gasped audibly. "What?"

He shook his head, as if the card was in his mouth right now. Other than for a few more seconds of self-preservation, he'd worked hard to spit out that suicide king because it disturbed him that O'Hara, upon finding his body, would make the discovery of the card. In hindsight, he thought of this as vain, especially when he'd believed he was really about to die.

"I didn't want you to find it."

His voice was so soft Juliet had to lean in. "Find it?" she repeated, confused.

Lassiter huffed, the whir of his thoughts almost too sharp. He wasn't giving her enough context, he knew. He wondered if she could see how helpless he'd felt if he gave her more puzzle pieces. Sweat formed on his brow. _Saul leering at him, squatting down next to him._ "He put the card in my mouth to punish me, because he wanted me to share a bunch of perverted lies with him—convinced that I had been—"

"_You ever been hurt? Real bad?" Saul's voice echoed with a sneer. _

Her touch was light, disarming, just fingers on his shoulder. Unwillingly, his eyes stung. He'd been so caught up he hadn't even seen her get up and make a move to comfort him. Instead, Lassiter heard Saul asking him just who could have, who might have, who _had_ done the sick things to him—felt his own thoughts lurch to the mysterious mentions of the grandfather—and then there was a tiny spark in the back of his head. He had wondered it many times; could the grandfather really be more than a figment of either of their imaginations?

"Carlton," Juliet said softly. Just his name was enough, a tell that he knew he didn't have to go on, didn't have to tell her everything. "Why didn't you want me to find it?" she asked, just as softly as she'd spoken his name.

"Because," he said, his voice broken. He couldn't look at her, couldn't look anywhere but the floor. He was overwhelmed with humiliation. He clenched his fists. "I . . . tried so hard to fight him. But you . . . you weren't going to see that." A half smile that failed. "You would just see . . . I thought it might hurt you, to know your partner—your partner couldn't fight off just one killer—"

Carlton was dissolving right in front of her. Juliet worked to catalogue every sentence for hidden meanings. She guessed that he was trying to tell her he assumed she would find him weak at every degree—and that to find him _dead_ with the suicide king clamped in his jaw would have only added insult to injury.

"Please," she hushed. "I have never seen that side of you, partner. I expect I never will. You're the strongest person I know."

Lassiter never thought that what came _after_ the fight for his life would be harder to come to grips with, to live with. Right now, Juliet O'Hara, too generous, was showing him her sweetest lie—but he heard in her tone that she was not patronizing; her voice was thick, torn up. "When we found you, I . . . it was the most fear I've ever felt in my life, Carlton. I thought . . . I thought I was too late."

He didn't want her to do this. He had to steer her away, though he wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to protect. But she intercepted.

"He hurt you, and god, I wish I could have stopped it so much sooner." Her eyes welled up.

"It's not your fault," he croaked. She sank onto the couch beside him. "You didn't get the message—and I had to be such a goddamned fool that I just didn't call when I had the chance. I had something to prove," he rasped. "And I hurt you anyway."

Juliet grabbed his arm and squeezed tight. "Carlton, I forgive you. And I . . ." She pursed her lips. "Please, I'm . . . glad you shared your doubts with me. I know the way I reacted might convince you otherwise, but . . ." Her voice trailed off into silence.

In his head, he could hear the faint tinkling of bells. O'Hara had not said it aloud, not that time, but he figured out that she wanted to help him . . . at any cost to herself.

Lassiter felt unusually lightened (though still sick enough to his stomach to almost be physically ill) after they had exchanged words—asked questions and received answers. He hadn't even given her much (except it had felt like a great weight) and O'Hara had taken it, whatever it was. Taken it with relief. Put him at ease when he decided he hadn't deserved it. Still, as soon as she had left, he fell asleep.

Saul was waiting for him after a couple of hours.

_"Because you're formidable, I can tell," Saul grinned. "Worthy of the fight—not so easily scarred or breakable as the others were. The tales my granddad used to tell that his granddad use to tell—the stronger the man, the more potent his blood. The weaker the man, you see, the more blood he needs—good blood to fill up a wicked heart. If what my granddad's granddad said's true, then, if I drink your blood and upon your death, I will take your strength into me."_

_Lassiter tried to sit up; both his back and stomach protesting, but he managed halfway before his captor's boot caught him square in the chest. It hurt too much to fight; no, there was another reason he lied down like a dog, right? Scowling at that thought, he tried again, only to take a mild kick to the throat. Now, it hurt too much. Maybe as soon as he caught his breath. . . ._

_The look in his captor's eyes seemed to taunt: "Don't fight it, don't even try."_

# # #

When he woke, dread. Had he said too much . . . too much for her to handle? How much longer could he keep doing that to her—as well as heading her off from the really twisted stuff? Mixed in the dread was a vague image of Saul's grandfather—a potential living relative. A potential . . . blood connection. With new urgency, Lassiter threw himself into finding out—nearly exhausting all of his Internet and phone searches.

But then, one tiny town kept standing out. There wasn't any concrete proof he could find—not from this far away—but now that the notions were in his head they were locked in place like a gun to his skull. Lassiter knew he had to do this—or else.

# # #

When Juliet returned home that night, sleep had not welcomed her after all. She had sat in her bed in the dark, the covers pulled up to her knees.

She was having a difficult time with this. Over and over, she . . . if she had been there . . . sooner . . . She shook her head in the darkness. This time, her partner was the victim—but by the grace of some god he had been spared the homicide statistic. She had to, as much as he had to, acknowledge and accept that he had been taken and tortured physically and psychologically for hours without her knowing his true whereabouts. She should have . . . "I _should_ have known."

Her eyes welled up. She felt thin, breakable, and a little lost even _considering_ his presence gone from her life. He was still not the easiest man to get along with, certainly, he'd always have his faults, but he had become an important and trustworthy friend. His methods of concern might be atypical, but it was a miracle that he'd come to care about people other than himself at all—other than the civilians he'd sworn to serve and protect.

_The killer—a man—bent back on his haunches, his mouth soaked with blood. He glanced up at her, a man who looked like he might be cowboy, a rancher, a businessman if he just cleaned up. His eyes gleaming with satisfaction, he was in possession of no guilt. He didn't even react to her aiming her gun in his direction, her voice choppy in the aromatic, heady, air. She wished . . . she hadn't been there. Taking the shot, she felt as if she were somewhere near sixty, already at the end of her career, trying to tell herself she was just a spring chicken. Red hot. Wasn't she, certainly, easily, a femme fatal, a heroine, a dame, uberwoman? Not just a young detective trained to use a gun, running with her heart in her throat to get her partner back and justify her use of violence to stop . . . hell?_

She could say it, think it, as if it was mundane, as if she was merely referencing someone else. It didn't feel like her. She didn't kill people.

She had never killed anyone before.

But she had shot people before . . . that was . . . that was basically the same thing.

Right. Exactly.

But, Juliet felt she would do it again, a hundred times over, the exact same way, if she only had that window. If she had someone counting on her, just her, only her.

# # #

"Chief?"

Karen looked up from a file she'd been examining intently for the past half an hour. He'd knocked, and was waiting at the door, eager.

"Do you have a moment, Chief?"

She waved him in. Absently, his hand pushed the door almost all the way closed. She started to protest, but he lumbered to the chair and took a seat, looking sheepish and nervous.

Karen couldn't imagine what could possibly have Buzz McNab so on edge, but after a second or two of fidgeting, Buzz sat up straight and said, "Chief, have you noticed anything different about Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter?" He paused for only a second before saying, "Because—because I have."

"I see," Karen said, fixing her eyes on the officer in the chair directly across from hers. He squirmed under her gaze; the discomfort was mutual. He didn't dare challenge her statement, but his slight frown seemed to betray his belief in her so-called understanding.

"I just—I had to bring this to your attention, Chief," he said, swallowing dryly. "I'm . . . I'm out there with them, everyday." He fumbled, looking down for a few seconds. "What I mean is, they—"

"McNab, just tell me," Karen coaxed in an effort to get him to say what he needed to say and leave the office as soon as possible. She hadn't realized it before, but she had some thoughts to chew.

Buzz sighed. "Chief, I know they would be different because of—" He faltered, then changed tactics. "Detective O'Hara, she's . . . charged up, like there's electricity in her body instead of blood. And she's . . ." He looked embarrassed. "I swear, it's as if she's created some force-field around Detective Lassiter." He stopped short of saying he'd become afraid to go near either of them, but Vick couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't true.

"And Lassiter," he continued, looking saddened. "He's so vacant in the eyes, as if . . . as if isn't even in there." Abruptly, he stood. "I just wanted to tell you, Chief. I'm . . . worried about them." Again, he looked embarrassed, and then backed away from her desk with a sincere thank you for letting him speak to her.

Karen considered ordering him to come back, but to be truthful, she was stunned by what the young officer had said. She watched him leave, trying to remember the promise she'd made to herself to be somewhat lax towards her two traumatized detectives, within reason. Had she . . . been too lax?

She had noticed changes, but more subtle things, at first. Lassiter wasn't as thrilled to return to work as she'd assumed he'd be, and O'Hara's fuse was shorter—but Vick had assured herself these changes were small, reasonable, and temporary.

Karen watched them through the blinds in her office, eventually unsettled by their new daily rituals; at least O'Hara had made the effort to 'bounce back', however, she had only suffered on one or two levels. Lassiter's horror went beneath the skin, was more than physical, was more than silence or words could muster. He wore a carefully grafted neutral mask, but Karen couldn't help but wonder if he was coming undone day by day or if he was slowly knitting his disbelief and his consciousnesses back together, as his body was doing for its skin and bones, the tear in his muscles like the tear in his soul?

It was worse that he wouldn't confirm or deny her suspicions; when she asked, he would return with a blank stare, or turn back to his computer screen, or a file. And what was even worse was that he was not leaving the office. He didn't go out to get lunch anymore, and got here early and stayed late. He was still pulling his weight—from his desk—when it came to investigating cases, but he seemed to be "gun shy" when it came to getting back out there.

Karen did know he wasn't getting flabby when it came to gun training; he was sharp and toned as ever, and still wore his holstered .17 under his jacket, after it was cleared to go back to him, or him to it. She wasn't as sure about his other weapons; again, she suspected they were snug against his person, at the ready—even if he wasn't.

She laughed a little at herself for the use of that word, "flabby". If anything, physically, her Head Detective appeared more gaunt, the space beneath his eyes constantly sallow, his mouth set in indifference—it was this, she realized, what made her mind jump to this word. Before . . . he had embodied what she considered an angry drive—a passion—a near obsession, honestly—for his work—but passion nonetheless. His mouth was open constantly, barking orders and snapping at people to get out of his way. He was always flapping his gums in her direction, or at O'Hara, begging for leeway, even as small as an inch. He was a good detective, she admitted, had that drive that was required to be good, even great, so she accepted it as another personality quirk that was not going away. Vick had even gotten used to it; as she got to know her officers, she had come to, subconsciously at the least, rely on their personality traits as a form of security. She knew who they were before she even knew all of their names. Even the bad personalities were a comfort; she knew when to change her tone and use her authority and when to ease off, just a smidgen.

So now, should she continue to be lenient or should she make demands, with Lassiter? With O'Hara? Granted, neither one had been the cause of headaches just yet, or made her question her judgment for letting them come back to work.

Karen had thought briefly on—and had as quickly passed on—the concept of contacting Hank Mendel, who had a kinship with Lassiter. But she resolved herself not get personally involved unless simple situations were turning into problems. Her detectives were adults; they were not her children, she told herself. She wasn't obligated to care about their personal well-beings outside of the job. Not this much.

It nagged her, however, that one of her officers had enough trepidation about the detectives to say something to her about it.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asked no one in particular as she glanced through her blinds, noticing that both of their desks were empty.

# # #

Later in the week, following their impromptu meeting, and while he was away from his desk, Juliet snuck a peek at Lassiter's latest bout of research.

_Grandfather._ It was underlined several times; underneath, a single severe question mark.

Juliet remembered that, according to Lassiter's statement, Saul Grant became hostile whenever Lassiter mentioned this particular relative. She winced, remembering that beatings—or cuttings—followed the hostility.

The killer, according to what she remembered reading (and by what she had seen in Lassiter's eyes), thrived off the suffering of others—had no remorse. She guessed that even his joy was repressed; he was patient as he cut. She shouldn't have read it; already considered herself appalled and angry at the very notion—if the shoe were on the other foot—of Lassiter reading the personal details of her statement. But Juliet couldn't have stopped reading even if she'd wanted it; she read with a guilty voyeurism, _needing_ to know. She wanted to a be a witness, even far after the fact, to be able to say the man had existed and everything he had done to not only Lassiter but to the other victims—who had died—had actually happened. To say the man was not a ghost.

Juliet took out her notepad and copied as many of Lassiter's notes as time would allow her. Lassiter was not suspicious of her knowing what he was up to—but Juliet knew that he considered his searching (mostly) private. He still kept up an official pretense, but what he was doing was personal.

Well, it was personal for her too.

Juliet went back to her desk with time to spare, getting back to one of her most recent open case files.

She liked to pretend that she could easily detach herself while her partner blatantly could not. But no matter how she tried, Juliet always circled back around. She was just able to do it while also getting work done.

# # #

McNab had butterflies in his stomach. He had had them since Detective O'Hara, on her way out to follow up on a case, ordered, "McNab! You're with me!"

Buzz had gulped, as nervous as in his childhood days, when his least favorite elementary school teacher had ordered him to the blackboard. Detective Lassiter, seated at his desk, had not even looked up from his work. Buzz was certain that Lassiter was aware that Buzz was studying him, and that he had heard Juliet screech as clearly as Buzz had, but the Head Detective remained eerily still.

"Today, McNab!"

Buzz jumped, picking up the pace to get in step with Juliet O'Hara. She had been like this for a while now, like a streak of light—natural phenomenon to be looked at but never touched.

He hadn't been able to work up courage to ask her what was wrong, if there was something he could do for her. He could see that she wasn't upset at him; outside of the station she was entirely different person. Instead, he kept his conversation focused on the work they were doing together.

_She looks like the same person to me,_ Buzz thought. Even if she didn't smile as freely anymore. Still, he had reservations, but whatever it was that was up with her was as elusive as air.


	5. Chapter 5: Mercy Is Bad For The Vision

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been encouraging me so far. You're all very sweet—and I really appreciate hearing your thoughts and insights. THANK YOU (worth repeating).

Special thanks to **NoirCat** for "proactive Gus" inspiration. :)

Reviews, feedback, thoughts and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. :)

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**Chapter Five: Mercy Is Bad For The Vision, Ruthless Will Clear It Away**

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# # #

Gus rapped on the door again, this time with more knuckle. He'd told himself, at first without shame, that a light tapping, light enough not to be heard over a TV or running water, was just as good as a regular knock.

He stole a look around him, noting the warm sunshine flowing through the tops of the leafy trees, the drops of morning dew still on the lovingly planted and tended flowers with feigned interest. He was in a suit, no tie, on his way to work; a vain curiosity had brought him here in detour (much out of the way).

No one was home. Must not be. Gus stared at the door, hoping to finally sort out what had been running through his mind as he not only made the turns to get here, but that which had led him out of his car, and up to the front door. There had to be a reason, a good reason.

He even had the perfect excuses in his mouth for what to do if the door opened. _"Can't stay, will be late for work." _He practiced the sentences as he rapped on the door again. But then . . . why had he come here?

Gus was puzzled by his own motivations; he had made the drive on auto-pilot, in spite of often using this subconscious function to get himself to the Central Coast building when it was time to refill his sample case or sit in on obligatory sales-rep improvement seminar. Truthfully, today, his route was waiting on him; he had no need to take a drive to Central Coast. The back of his neck itched.

_I shouldn't be here,_ he thought, staring at the door, praying that it would not open.

It didn't. He was starting to feel foolish, and faintly disappointed. Gus frowned, but forced himself to turn around. Dejected, he walked down the steps. His hand was on his driver's side door before it struck him that Henry's truck was not in the driveway.

If Shawn had been here, he would have noticed that right away. Time could have been saved; or, knowing Shawn, he would have just himself in, Gus at his heels.

_Shawn._ His name broke over Gus with sadness. Coming here had been . . . the safest bet. Henry must . . . know something. Which direction to point Gus in; the last converted apartment Shawn had called "home" was now just another vacant space.

He had gone up to it, looked in the dusty windows. _No sign of Shawn._ Gus swallowed hard. He made himself get back into his car, and gave himself a pep-talk for his route. Henry was probably out on his boat; it was probable he'd be back at the house later tonight.

"I'll come back," Gus muttered, watching Henry Spencer's house grow smaller in his rearview.

# # #

Lassiter hadn't quite meant to let her "help" him, but he hadn't had the heart to shoo her off either, especially since he could do with another set eyes looking at the things he looked at so often. Juliet had come to his desk while he sat in his constant state of research, feigning innocent reasons for the visit. This was a day or two after her "innocent" visit to his apartment, where he had made accusations of her and then ripped open his insides as penance.

When, Carlton wondered, looking her over discreetly, when had his partner become so calculating and cool, while still possessing eyes of hot blue flame? He felt he should be more wary of her, of her intentions—even those good intentions—but pushing her away would just hurt _him_.

O'Hara handed him one of her small case file folders, asking him to go over the evidence, in spite of knowing the case was basically open and shut. Lassiter complied, pretending not to be unnerved as she leaned in to read his notes. Lassiter was tempted to shove the folder back in her face, demand what kind of crap she was trying to pull—only because he was curious at how she would react. He used to do this kind of thing to her all the time; worse, venting his angers and frustrations out on her when she never deserved it.

But it was too late; she was already drunk on his notes, staring at his crudely drawn maps and stark underlines and hard punctuations with heavy eyes.

Juliet wondered, not for the first time, if Carlton was seeing things where they weren't—making connections and inventing patterns between all of these unsolved deaths. Not all of them had the killer's stamp. She had—unbeknownst to anyone else but the coroner, who had offered to share his expertise—studied the markings on the corpses, going over every detail in hopes to find the connection between all of them. The connection, Juliet had determined, was that they had all been killed by the same person, killed in _exactly_ the same way, with nearly all of the flesh sliced up identically, with the same knife.

Juliet had photographs of her partner's injuries; it would be a lie to say that holding them against the corpses hadn't been nearly impossible. Woody had even tried to take them from her, offering to do the "unsavory stuff" for her, but Juliet had shaken her head. "I have to do this," she'd whispered.

Grant had not cut the bottoms of Lassiter's feet; had only cut small, select areas of his face. Deepening the nicks along Carlton's jaw from shaving, pushing the blade against his hairline, cutting a slice in the back of his neck. The scar . . . it was almost the same color as his skin, but Juliet had noticed it anyway.

Grant had focused on Lassiter's arms, on his chest, before making seemingly haphazard cuts to his thighs and stomach, before opening a vein in his wrist.

The corpses had a smattering of other injuries; bruising, fractured limbs, internal bleeding. A single, forceful stab to the heart had been their ends.

_Lassiter is not a corpse,_ Juliet told herself, focusing intently on the photographs. There were a few differences between him and the corpses—other than the death part—but it was clear enough to her that Grant was responsible for all of it. The investigation was still open, pending closure, until everything could be aptly proved—and the public put at ease, but Juliet just knew already it was done. The evidence "spoke" to her as if her gut was now rigged up with ESP. She'd frowned, recalling the vivid memory of Shawn at the station, clutching his side, his voice shrill. _"He's not okay! She's showing him to me right now! He's in pain!" _

Shawn, "communed" with one of the corpses, Juliet remembered, still frowning. The latest (known) victim—the young woman with the short, dark hair, with the one missing sandal. The bottoms of her feet had been slashed. So she would never walk again, without pain. _Curious notion,_ Juliet considered in reflection.

Juliet sighed; she could hardly tell her partner that she knew an extra thing or two about Grant's victims. Especially not when he had actually let her stay at his work space, almost "inviting" her to help. Juliet focused on his voice as he launched into a lengthy theory about every unsolved murder across the Southwest being linked to Grant.

"He might have adjusted his patterns by state," Carlton insisted, "by year. You forget, this was supposed to be the year that—" He broke off, almost forgetting whose company he was in.

"Year that what?" Juliet prodded. She leaned over his shoulder, trying to see what he could see on the computer screen, as if the answer was there. Her partner was trying silence, as if she was going to forget. She jabbed him in the back with her pointer finger. "What?"

"Year that he was supposed to get his heart," Lassiter muttered. It had been a minor inclusion in his statement that the killer had threatened to cut out his heart, and he guessed that his partner had gotten her hands on his statement because he had been so tight-lipped. Lassiter had failed to include the detail that Saul had alluded to consuming his heart for strength in the same manner he'd failed to report that by drinking Lassiter's blood, the killer would become invincible. But the fact remained, in print—as well as witnessed to the grave shock of his partner—that Saul had tasted Lassiter's blood and had licked it from open wounds. Lassiter hated that Juliet knew that, that she actually _seen_ it happening; he was humiliated by so much that Saul had done. This was not something he would openly discuss—maybe not even while under hypnosis; but there were many other things that might not hurt to get off his chest. She was here, and as she had stated, she was not going away.

Still, he had to deflect her now. She had not jabbed him again, but he guessed she was waiting for an—any—explanation. "I'm just considering that it seems like, from this patterning, if they are his patterns, that he went looking in small towns, maybe practicing, working up to—"

"This is about the heart?" Juliet asked. He listened for skepticism, waited for her pressure him, but her statement seemed to be neutral. He felt a little at ease that she wasn't asking for more from him regarding his experiences; she was, he reflected later, good about giving him space while still casting her net around him, just in case he changed his mind.

Juliet could not truly fathom the killer _actually_ cutting out Lassiter's heart. He had made no attempts to retrieve the hearts of the corpses. But . . . none of the rest had had their wrists sliced open and suckled. She put her hand on Lassiter's shoulder, ignoring his flinch, as if resting her fingers on his jacket. In fact, she had no doubts in her mind that Grant wouldn't just have killed her partner the same way as he'd killed the others—then taken a garish care to arrange his body in a public place.

Juliet swallowed, recalling what Carlton had recently told her about Grant pressing a playing card into his mouth. None of the other victims had been found like this. No, the card had been proudly displayed, halved and held on with a red teardrop hat pin.

Lassiter turned his head, causing Juliet to let go of him. He looked sad. "I don't know that, not for one hundred percent," he told her quietly. He stabbed a finger at his computer screen. "But he was definitely up to something, O'Hara. Looking and killing, making his way here—" Lassiter clamped his jaw shut, feeling a blush sneak up on him. He was thankful that no one else was around to open up his head, take a look inside. He could churn thoughts with O'Hara right beside him and none would be the wiser. Distantly, he was grateful he also could not guess at what was boiling behind her stormy eyes.

There were bad times . . . bad _dreams_, he corrected himself, when he'd wake sharply after believing Saul had his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, had his mouth to Lassiter's ear, whispering about dead murdered things and desert burials and corpses without hearts.

There was a . . . Carlton was ashamed to have these thoughts, but they were so tangled up with his other thoughts that right now, separation of any kind was impossible. He had a morbid sense of pride that the killer had . . . had coveted _his blood alone_ as some sort of extraordinary gift. He hated that he liked the idea of it.

He knew he couldn't finish the sentence without indirectly implicating himself as somehow being "chosen" as "special". This was not a thing to speak aloud; was definitely not a thing to ever say to O'Hara for the shock value alone, or to Vick, who would yank his field clearance and dump his ass in some file room for the duration of his career.

"Carlton, he could have gotten to anyone, here," O'Hara said quietly, making Lassiter wonder if she somehow _could_ read his thoughts. He felt dizzy with nausea, but pushed himself to listen to her. Her aggression was foreign to him; he had never known her to possess such emotions; secretly, he missed the softer parts of her personality—even the cheer that would not die. And now that she was offering comfort, he didn't want to tune her out. "I know . . . I know you are likely so sick of hearing people tell you how lucky you are, but . . ." Juliet hesitated, mainly because the notion seemed like in belonged in some tall tale instead of in their reality, but then she continued, "But that bastard was going to take your heart." Juliet's mouth screwed up. She couldn't hold the question back. "Do you know why?" she breathed.

_So,_ he thought. _She doesn't know._ Lassiter forced himself not to nod, giving her no response at all.

A long silence between them; tension both could sense, if not be crushed by. The air was charged, but Lassiter wasn't afraid. He felt her leave more than he saw it; O'Hara took with her an angry determination, raking the air around her as if she were in water, making waves.

_I just . . . can't,_ he told her silently as she retreated. _Can't. Not yet._

# # #

_Did I let him go too easily?_ Juliet pondered, a fist clenched at her side. Behind her was the shell of her partner; more of him left behind in that building, perhaps? She kept her pace, unable to pause at her desk. She could have been walking towards a wall of flame—but why, then, the coldness inside her, turning her limbs to solid blocks of ice?

Juliet kept walking; in time, she passed the spot in the hallway where she had learned the things that would set her fate in motion—where she had discovered that her gut instinct had _not_ been way off. She quelled the urge to look behind her, be assured that he was okay—by telling herself she knew he wasn't. But he was there and she shouldn't dare ask for more.

"_Do you know why?"_ It rolled around her head like pebbles; something was loose. Juliet headed for the double doors; she needed to feel the sun on her skin. In a way, she was miffed, or disappointed, but knew she had earned a remote triumph of progress. Too often, she found herself wandering into the complex maze of her partner's inner terror without so much as a small ball of yarn tethering her to the outside—marking her way in, and out. Juliet guessed she should consider a harness and full body armor for these "errands"—metaphorically speaking, of course.

And what if . . . what if what was in the center of the maze was much worse than a "Minotaur"? What if she entered . . . found the center . . . and then had no instructions or a path of how to get either one of them back to a place of light? Not without hitting a few walls first, running blindly like mice not well-versed in electroshock therapy. Could either of them take it? What if . . . what if they got separated? Juliet shook her head; this was all speculation; she wasn't even _close_ to the center. But getting there was always on her mind.

"_He was supposed to get his heart." _Uttered so quietly that it was clear to Juliet the words were for their ears only.

Juliet dissected the sentence as she walked, ignoring the sharp glare that hit her eyes as she walked down the steps of the police station. The sun was hot enough for sweat to bead quickly at her temples. _Why . . . how . . . did Carlton get so attached to Grant?_ she mulled over. _Or was it the other way?_ She felt her breath come out chillily. Why was Carlton resisting her tug of war? Why . . . how . . . had there come to be a war of sorts behind them? Should she put more force into her pulling, or should she let go?

Juliet veered away from the parking lot, not trusting herself to get behind the wheel. Treading along a sidewalk, she told herself she just needed a few minutes to collect herself. She felt grateful for the sunny weather, the salty breeze coming off the sea, and the bright, cloudless sky. The only thing she wished it could do for her was clear her head completely—burn away, breeze away, shine away everything she no longer wanted to see.

Juliet wished . . . she smiled ironically to herself, glad no one was around to see. She wished she could get her hands on Grant, around his throat. If she knew the separations and definitions between Lassiter and Grant's "ghost", then she could grab the ghost and rip it off Lassiter.

She killed this ghost all the time; what was just once more?

# # #

Lassiter stood up. Now was as good a time as any. He took a deep breath and headed for Vick's office, hoping she wasn't already occupied. Halfway there, he wondered if he should have picked up O'Hara's case file, pretending this was reason for which he wanted to speak with Vick. _Too late,_ he shrugged to himself.

He cleared his throat, and knocked.

When Lassiter knocked on her door, Karen was in the middle of deep consideration—weighing just how heavy the recent words of Detective O'Hara were when it came to her partner's well-being. This morning, she had stopped by to open up. O'Hara was just short of appalled that Vick was nearly clueless about the whole thing.

"He doesn't know I'm here, doesn't know what I'm about to say," O'Hara had said. She'd been as cool, but with more limited emotion, as when she stood before IAB a few months earlier—ready, if necessary, to offer up her badge in defense of Lassiter.

It wasn't that Karen doubted O'Hara was well meaning, but Karen couldn't quite understand how Lassiter could have been doing extended—and unauthorized—research about Grant right under her nose. Or maybe it was she just didn't want to believe it. O'Hara had voiced her concerns about his lengths and extremes tracking this killer to his past— "A man," O'Hara had told her exasperatedly, "who doesn't even exist."

By the time the Junior Detective left, Vick felt washed over with deja vu; O'Hara was not the first to come to her office with a say about Lassiter. "You just don't know," O'Hara told her sadly. Yet Vick had heard in her words the undertone of O'Hara's explanation about her actions in the killer's death: _"I don't regret it. . . . I'd do it again. He was—barely human." _Aloofness, a faux certainty. Or was it something else that Karen was blind to?

Where was the O'Hara who had . . . been worried that Lassiter's opinion of her would be forever altered? She was not here anymore.

Vick came out of thoughts when she saw Lassiter opening her door. "A moment, Chief?" he asked.

"Come in," she said, looking him over. He still bore stitches and a few visible scars; even his face, practically untouched, was a map of pain; Vick imagined the seams holding his insides together were just as battered, if not more.

"Chief," Carlton began after the office door was closed behind him, "I'd like to be granted permission for a leave of absence."

Vick knew it was unfair to expect her Head Detective to be immediately the same as he was following such a horrifying ordeal—one that he had nearly not survived—but inside her hopes plunged from a great height. She gulped silently, and repeated it. "Leave of absence?"

"Not too long," Carlton said, ironically trying to reassure her. "Um. Two weeks, maybe three."

"Why?" Vick blurted out. "Excuse me, I'm just surprised, Detective," she apologized.

Carlton looked away, his glance distant. Knowing she was already concerned, he briefly told her why. His voice was strangely soft, flat. "I want to go to New Mexico, Chief. I have come to believe Grant does have a living blood relation—and I think I can find him." He was testing this out on her first, gauging her reaction as to when and how much he should actually tell his partner—who might get physical. He could imagine a smack to the shoulder or even a fist to the still tender spots of his collarbone—a needed shock to his system that only she could provide. "I need to go to New Mexico," he repeated, amending his earlier word choice.

"You're not considering—turning in your badge, are you?" Karen asked softly, apprehensive that the man standing before her was too much of a different Carlton Lassiter altogether. She was slightly relieved when her Head Detective appeared offended at the mere suggestion. It comforted her to see him bare his teeth as if he were preparing to give her a mild tongue lashing as to why he would never willingly surrender his badge.

He shook his head curtly, swallowing what he felt was most unnecessary. "Chief, I'm sorry. This time I just can't throw myself into my job to forget. Please," he hissed through closed teeth, "please don't make me exchange my badge for what I _have_ to do." After a few seconds of silence, he added, "I'm—I'm going to come back."

Karen was taken aback, raising her hand to press against her sternum. "Just where is this place you intend to go?"

"Norton," Carlton replied, "a small town, barely on the map. It's nearly 200 miles east of Albuquerque, if that helps your visual."

Karen gave him a sideways look, but he didn't budge. Instead, he added, "It's also about 215 miles north of Roswell. Norton's in Quay County. Would you like to hear its crime statistics?" She raised an eyebrow as a warning, annoyed by how much he seemed know about this remote area. He had already, she understood with dread, made up his mind about this, and what he'd come to do here was just a formality—another quirk which irritated her. The distant words of Officer McNab's worry crept up on her like fog.

Lassiter worked hard to hold his tongue; he knew, by memory, how many miles Norton was away from every place of interest he'd looked into regarding a possible connection to Saul. Any brutal unsolved crime around this cache of states could easily be his. Lassiter knew how far Norton was from Santa Barbara—1061 miles, a nearly 16 hour trek by car; but he'd already done all the tedious work of finding an airline and rental car service that would get himself within town lines. And because he wasn't flying internationally, or because he hadn't been striped of his badge, he was eligible to bring his firearms and other police issued weapons with him—as long as they were not included in his carry-on or carried on on his person. He had been practicing his patience in case of emergency delays, already anticipating the long hours to spend in uncomfortable airport chairs, biding time with his memories, questions and regrets until he could set foot in a place he needed to go to.

Vick gestured to a chair in front of her desk. Lassiter hesitated, rubbing his hands together. She wondered if he thought he'd just get away with asking her for such a thing without having to explain anything. She wondered if he'd considered the magnitude of what he was asking—financial conditions aside. Thanks to O'Hara's prodding, Karen saw right through the in-person next of kin notification. "What are you really asking for?" she said, raising an eyebrow while again pointing to the chair.

Lassiter sighed, and dropped into the chair. "Just what I said. And I—I want to do some retrospective investigating," he told her quietly.

"Oh?" Vick said, frowning.

When he started discussing, in detail, what he considered a pattern of unsolved murders across the Southwest, Karen realized he had thought this out too far. She realized also that she had to put a stop to it—and at the same time, give him his way, in a way. Or else risk losing him to . . . what? Some imaginary pattern? Lassiter wasn't going to rest until he saw this _whole thing_ through. This could . . . kill him.

She put her foot down, in a manner of speaking. "I will _not_ authorize you to go on some statewide or countrywide crime hunt, Detective." She sighed. "It's obvious that I have neglected making myself available, and I apologize, Carlton—but now we're going to talk."

Lassiter twisted his mouth. He'd already considered the difficulties of such a request; didn't _everyone_ want a piece of him? Even after Saul already had taken . . .

Vick didn't wait for him to start. "Carlton, you didn't ask to be victimized, did you?" she asked, staring at the tightened muscles of his jaw and neck line; his head turned from her, facing a wall he was not seeing.

He made a noise under his tongue, then paused before answering with disdain, "Didn't I? I could have turned around, so many times."

"You _did not_ ask to be victimized," Vick stated almost forcefully, changing her tactic.

"Even if I didn't 'ask'—" Lassiter began, his long fingers fidgeting with the edges of his suit jacket. He couldn't finish the thought, not out loud, not in his head. It had become commonplace to deconstruct his actions so that, no matter what, he always came out at fault. It was not Saul's fault—Carlton Lassiter was the only one to blame for his own misfortunes. "He knew me," he said instead, "so well." He looked down.

Vick started. She couldn't possibly say to Lassiter that his statement was untrue; he was the last person to converse with the killer one-on-one in a space of almost five incredibly torturous hours—no matter what she thought she knew about Lassiter's personality, how he "should" have been unshakable, unbreakable, in reality, she had not known what had gone on while Lassiter was held hostage.

"I need to understand why . . ." he began, trying to ignore the Chief's eyes boring into him.

"Why . . . you feel he knew you?" Vick repeated slowly. She felt as if she was being cut; it was one thing to hear from others about Lassiter—and quite another to hear from Lassiter himself.

It wasn't fair, that she could read him this way. He took in a breath, released. "Yes, but other reasons too." He sighed, then made another request. "Chief, I need to do this alone."

"Oh," Vick said, drawing out the word as the meaning flashed before her. She despised the mere thought of sending—allowing—her despondent Head Detective to go out into the New Mexican desert, looking for answers that might not be anywhere. But here he was before her, pleading, if not for understanding or acceptance then for permission. It went against everything she hoped for his healing to say yes.

"You know that I have enough vacation time saved up," he continued, as if she could deny this fact. In three and a half years, he had only used four days, pleading with her then to let him and O'Hara board a plane to Vancouver so he could track and hopefully catch a criminal on his personal "Most Wanted" list. He brought his eyes up to hers, made them lock until he said what he had to, until she heard it, until it registered.

"I'm . . . I'm no good to you here, not right now. I can't focus on any crime that was not his, that is not . . . my own. I mean, what was done. What I did to . . . end up there." He didn't let her tell him again that he was not to blame himself. He closed his eyes and waited for her to lose the urge to speak. "I can't do my job well. I . . . I . . ." He bit his lip, pausing. "I have unfinished business, Chief."

Karen took a deep breath. Their conversation was bordering on surreal, and she wasn't sure what to do about it—how to steer it back from the edge. "Carlton," she began firmly, "I meant what I said—you are _not_ to pursue any unauthorized investigations. I see now that you have given this subject much scrutiny—so much so that it has apparently interfered with your open cases." Vick found herself getting angry at Lassiter—and remorseful for doubting O'Hara—but kept her words in check. "If I grant you permission to go to this—"

"Norton, New Mexico," Lassiter filled in quietly as she grasped for the small town's name.

Karen sighed. "Norton, New Mexico, it will be for the sole purpose of seeking Grant's relatives." She sighed again. "And, Carlton—"

He waited; she was relenting.

"For closure," she finished kindly.

Lassiter's body felt the relief before his mind did; she still had not affirmed his request. Admittedly, he had not been expecting anything even close to this from Vick. He waited in silence for her to rule.

Why wouldn't he argue with her? Vick pondered, feeling her throat constrict. She didn't imagine he would obey her to the letter; if he saw a trail in the dust, what would stop him from following it? She swallowed uneasily, wishing she could take back her words already. But she studied him as she had when he first walked in—and saw what might be a thin hope breaking through the pain so noticeably etched into his face.

# # #

He might, he contemplated, decline to tell her. Lassiter chewed the inside of his cheek. Detached, he imagined what it might be like to tell her, straight up.

"_I'm leaving."_

But it never got past that. Lassiter always flinched, aware now of O'Hara's likelihood to strike out, with fists. He could almost feel bruises forming on his jaw, his cheeks, under an eye.

_It's best I go,_ he thought, _then call her, with coordinates._ It felt a bit cowardly, but he had to (almost) admit aloud that he was now in a business of self-preservation.

Besides . . . she was much too eager to . . . peel the Saul-side from him, to dig in her nails, to draw her own blood, and his, just to get it free. Lassiter stole a glance at her. She looked . . . almost the same—as before, as that night. He still had a clear image of her in his head, when she was leaning over him as he lay on the earthen floor, her mouth opening and closing without sound. Her eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair out of place.

Then, she vanished, a magician having perfected the desired illusion with mirrors, smoke, misdirection. And her reasoning for doing so . . . it still didn't sit well with him. Lassiter carried it inside his body, a constant reminder that things were not quite what they seemed—and that he was going to have go back to it and confront her.

But now, he just didn't have the stomach nor the energy for it. Doing it meant also confronting . . . the ugliest notions caught inside his own head—the horrific remainders. Lassiter shook his head hard enough to feel dizzy. _I'm not ready, I'm not ready,_ he thought.


	6. Chapter 6: In The Grip Of A Hurricane

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Whoa. What happened there? I'm not quite sure myself, but I hope to get back on track and update more (somewhat more) regularly. I hope also that I didn't lose everyone who used to be following this story. XD

I want to thank again everyone who's been reading and reviewing so far—your encouragement and feedback are just beyond wonderful and I appreciate every single review more than I can likely thank anyone enough for (but I will do my best!). Please to enjoy the latest chapter!

Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are welcome and valued greatly. Thanks so much for reading!

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**Chapter Six: You Can't Help Me Now 'Cause I'm In The Grip Of A Hurricane**

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Why the hell was he having such a hard time keeping his mouth shut? Lassiter was furious with himself, giving in to the wiles and charms of women—just a few bats of an eye, a plump pout, a few tears of pain or shock, and he was . . . gone.

Lassiter frowned hard. This was a very convenient excuse he'd thought up for himself, but he couldn't quite believe in it. Both O'Hara and Vick . . . O'Hara, more so. Why? Why had he given away so much, even in the smallest increments? It was all adding up, before he knew it it would all be on the table, ugly and regurgitated. He felt sick enough already.

"_He . . . liked me."_ That statement had been on the tip of his tongue as he'd sat in Vick's office. Instead, he'd heard his voice say, _"He knew me so well."_

Vick had almost gotten it out of him too; she had been quite serious when she'd stated they were going to talk. Well, she talked and he sat still, uncomfortable, almost feeling as if Saul stood to the side of him, grip his shoulder tight. "Tell her," the ghost hissed, "how much I liked you, Lawman." Saul laughed in his ear. "How much," the ghost breathed, "I still . . ."

Hell, the killer was always there. Lassiter knew he'd be lying to himself to deny it. "Tell her," Saul continued in a smoky whisper, "why I kept your face pretty enough for the pictures." He chuckled, taking a short stroll around the office. "'Cause I already knew the man the kind of man you was—"

Eventually, Lassiter bolted upright from his chair, doing his damnedest to hide the quaking of his limbs from her. The goddamn problem was that both she and O'Hara meant well—hell, they wanted things for him now that he wasn't ready to fathom deserving for himself.

"I wanted your heart," Saul breathed, showing his teeth. When he turned in profile, Lassiter caught a glimpse of the bullet hole in his forehead.

"Detective? _Detective?_"

Lassiter breathed hard, realizing much too slowly that Vick had stood up, gotten close enough to him to put her hand on his arm. He hadn't even been aware. Lassiter shook her off. "I'm fine," he insisted to the floor.

"_Dee-tech-tive."_ It was layered over—or under—her words. That he was here, in Vick's office—well, wasn't he even bold enough to "appear" around O'Hara, even when O'Hara forced Lassiter's full attention?

Vick, he was grateful, let it go. She looked him over with apprehension, seeming to regret her decision. He wasn't about to open his mouth and ruin it in any way; she was not allowed to renege on this. Vick pursed her lips. "Carlton," she said quietly, "I want you to promise me something."

He nodded tightly, as if he already knew what it was.

Vick sighed. "Please—please call me, if you need . . ." She checked to see if her words were registering behind his eyes. "Even if . . . you don't want to talk, but . . ." Vick broke off again. Her eyes stared at his shoulder, unfocused. Was she trying not to cry? Lassiter waited, holding his breath. "There's . . . always time." She was looking at him again, in the eyes. "Do you understand me?"

Lassiter nodded again, his eyes softening. He swallowed. Vick was offering up the personal time with which she reserved for her family in the event that he needed to talk to someone about anything, from the most trite to the most serious—just to _talk_. Or just to . . . know there was someone on the line who gave a holy damn. Ashamed for his weaknesses, Lassiter made himself look at Vick, and was surprised to see an element similar to what constantly played across O'Hara's features. She was throwing him a lifeline from what may have been a great distance, urging him to take it, in spite of how thin it was, how it might not be able to hold his full weight, or how there was the possibly he was not yet strong enough to lift his head out of the tossing, vicious sea.

"I'll be okay," Lassiter said softly. He hoped she understood he was telling her not to worry—not so much—about him.

Vick was looking him over as if he would break right in front of her—shatter.

He could only give the smallest bits of himself away; not that he wanted to, but with the way he'd been before, letting personal details slip—it was still hard to rein in his tongue.

It was because, he was loathe to admit, he had found himself _comfortable_ enough around certain people; it was more than just the usual—the crap that got him horrified looks, or a light slap to the back of the head, or the empty threats that he was about to get himself shot. It was more—he had been giving himself away, bit by bit, for years. Ever since the fallout of the Goochburg Incident. Ever since . . . O'Hara, Spencer and Guster had welcomed him into their happy little cult. Ever since the Chief expressed exactly what everyone in the station had wanted to and had been too scared to do on that fateful day.

Though, he wasn't any entirely changed man because of it. But, he was better.

Even these small things he thought over obsessively; was this why? Had he changed just enough but not entirely enough so that the trip to hell with Saul as his personal devil could never have been avoided? If he had stayed the same, would it really been O'Hara meeting his fate instead? Sometimes, the thought process dizzied him enough to sway, or disoriented him enough that he forgot where he was for a few seconds, or forced him to actually sit down or lean against a wall. Would he ever find himself again? He chased these thoughts all the time, down long corridors, through doors that opened up to walls, up stairs that led to ceilings, through windows with a great drop below. Then he started all over again.

_It was out of context,_ he realized; felt a simple, warm relief flood his abdomen. They only knew . . . his side.

Even if . . . someday . . . if he was able to . . . tell . . . wouldn't just he and the dead man always know the truth?

Carlton wasn't sure if this brought him relief . . . or horror; he felt twinges of both stinging him, stabbing. He absentmindedly touched his side, then ran two fingers across his still bandaged wrist. The scars, he thought. He couldn't feel either under their dressings, but he guessed they were quite impressive, for survival. His mind replayed Vick's monologue about these re-knittings of skin, remembering that, under her words, was the thankfulness that he was still alive.

He wondered what had made her say yes—certainly, she had enough misgivings. He hadn't even had to beg.

Now, about his partner. He stole a glance in her direction. Maybe . . . maybe he did owe her a warning—a head's up. Even if it hurt her—or him—when he told her, in not so many words, that he needed some space. Softly clearing his throat, he got up and went to her.

# # #

Times, still, when he awoke, not remembering—for a few untrained, blissful seconds—where he was, what had happened, what he was supposed to do now.

The time was recent—the very recent past, he was sure. (Still, it was hard to collect the all of the exact fragments; too much of what was once clear as crystal had fogged up, had had something in the nature of candle wax drizzled over its surface.) He felt like he used to know everything—always had the perfect words rolling around in his mouth, poised to burst free with a single breath of air; it took guts, he guessed, to say those things. All of those things. He thought he could always see everything, read a scene before him fast, before all the others, as if what he was reading was mystical—palms, tea leaves, tarot cards. He had them under his spell.

And this, Shawn considered, was his recent past. He could still read a room, see quickly what others could not—or did not—want to see, but recently, there was no one standing beside him, to interpret, or cause static, or send a gentle wave of believing his way.

If he looked too far back, he could retrace every ache, could see on the map where his guilt had begun—the first to grab him by the neck. He tried to forgive himself for what he'd considered a harmless tip—in reality, he hadn't _known_ for certain that _that_ building housed the serial killer's alter ego.

Shawn giggled nervously to himself; what he had seen _happening_ while he had been inside the structure's twisting intestines—and _who_ he'd see it happening to—_that_ was _his_ fault. As if . . . as if the killer had been acting off of the "psychic" orders of Shawn's tilted anger, his unease.

He couldn't get the image out of his head. Lassiter, on the floor, bleeding, refusing to stand up. Snarling at Shawn to run. Lassie's voice in a hush, _"He can't find you here." _Subdued, _broken_.

But Shawn had had no way of knowing Lassiter's plans, his intentions to strike off on his own, to give the killer chase, right? No way of knowing that the killer would pin Lassiter to the floor with a few jabs of a blade, would sink his fingernails into Lassiter's flesh like a leech, right? Shawn's palate soured. No way of knowing the killer's penchant for blood letting—no, drinking. He frowned, scared for half a second. His tongue had not wagged at all then; he'd found no displaced humor learning of it—a part of his subconscious reminded him why.

Because . . . he hadn't been all together certain either Lassie or Jules could handle it; he thought he might die—or at least cry—if either of them had found it funny, had laughed. What if Lassie had agreed—his blood _had_ been perfectly sweet, so rare or potent that the killer couldn't get enough?

His breath came out haltingly, as if he'd been running for miles. Shawn was aware of every single second of memory—it pressed up against him with its rough textures in the narrowest of hallways, flashed him, showed him its sharpened, decomposing grins—of when he found the detective. The seconds became dodgy when he raced for the darkness, dissolving as he went.

But it was a curse that he could see it all—or at least, see it more clearly when he burst out into the night, the stars hard silver diamonds above him. The air still smelled of rain, and the still soaked cement brought him chill. He was home free . . . until he dropped to his knees, his stomach rebelling. Or maybe it was his head; the bottled terror had made him into a heavy thing, like stone. What if he was never going to get away?

It was a reaction, then, when he finally drew himself up before people—friends, colleagues, those around who knew his face well—to put on a show. Put on a show, or crumble immediately; if he kept himself racing—racing away from the killer, away on his motorcycle, the wind tugging at him so hard that he was, in a too sharp turn, ripped right off his bike—then he could get through.

Why . . . hadn't his appearance alone been enough for a search warrant? Or the hazy, nervous tumble of words—as if he, too, had experienced a serious loss of blood. He could barely breathe.

Lassiter's words pitched through him quickly as he stood before the knot of police; a tiny part of Shawn was still incredulous that he had dragged himself in here without the Head Detective. There would have . . . been no way he'd could have gotten Lassiter up the steps. He saw a flash of red, then a pool of it, and a partial conversation ran through his mind.

_"I'm serious, Spencer. He's smart—he'll be back soon—he can't find you here."_

_"Who can't?"_

_"The serial killer, you moron," Lassiter growled, wincing immediately. "The one expert human carver."_

At the time, Shawn hadn't the few extra seconds to dwell on these terms—but it was . . . _familiar_, at least to the man who was saying it. _"The one expert human carver."_

He'd said it without flinching, said it hushed but managed to sound annoyed—as if there was _another_ expert human carver recently plaguing Santa Barbara, as if that was the killer they should actually be searching for. Lassiter told him repeatedly, _"I can't. Go without me."_

Shawn swallowed, running his tongue across his teeth. These denials, at first, were put forth with the insistence that Lassiter simply couldn't go because the killer had several weapons and Lassiter had none. Then Shawn discovered, rather horribly, how seriously Lassiter had been cut. They could have managed, no matter how hard, he'd wanted to guess.

But still . . . the detective stayed on the floor. _"He will kill you."_

Well. Didn't he?

Shawn sat up.

Maybe Lassie hadn't been so far off with his creepy Stockholm Syndrome, since it came with an self-constructed order of protection. He'd been in absolutely no shape to fight the killer—and he'd let Shawn know this by telling him to run away. No weapons, it was a poor excuse. The knife wound, a much better one.

Besides all that . . . the killer had . . . Shawn leaned back against the wall of his latest makeshift apartment, a storage area above a Chinese restaurant. (He'd found it on a rare walk in daylight—space for rent. Why not? he'd thought.) The killer hadn't _liked_ the interruption to all his fun. He didn't need two victims, he only needed one.

Shawn's mouth twitched; his thoughts were starting to rhyme. This was less funny than he would have liked, but it was hard not to sober up fast whenever the killer walked into his view—

Too easy, much too easy to circle back to those moments; it was a ride he'd been dragged onto, coercised into "willingly boarding"; after all, he'd driven himself there, he'd walked just behind (or just over) Lassiter's footsteps, falling to be the same gullible—and fearless—prey.

All that had occurred had snuck up on him—what came _after_, with what he was blameless for. He had never asked the killer to kill him, or Gus to leave his side.

No matter what would have happened, he'd been ready to half drag, half carry Lassiter the hell out of there.

The moments ran by him, ran through him, shadows with fingers, voiceless shadows which gouged him. Shawn pressed his hands to his ears, hard, as if this would stop them.

He hadn't, not once in so many months, gone to the police station, hadn't seen Juliet, or Lassiter. Gus hadn't once tried to get in contact with him. And no one had come looking, no one had cared enough to check up. No one knew the dreams he had, the dreams that held his head in a vise, the sick remorse which kept him from seeking anyone out, and from running away.

He had even stopped imagining someone, like his father, or Gus, patting the top of his head, saying his name full of hush and shush, offering to embrace him with one arm; had stopped imagining himself leaning in, giving in. Shawn was numb all over. Images of Juliet filtered through to him, fractured, wild, stained with Lassiter's blood. She'd gotten some on her face, wiped it across her cheekbone like war paint.

It was her, Little Red Riding Hood—devoid of appropriate body armor but not lacking in proper motivation—at the end of the storybook, who'd managed to eat the wolf. She'd needed no ax, just ice cold steel prepped and ready to fire, with her mouth full of fangs. She wasn't done yet with biting, Shawn feared.

She was swearing, screaming, spitting, she was wrenching out of grasps. He'd watched four officers rip her off the floor, her ponytail elastic breaking; hair spilled across her face.

He'd watched her stand outside in the night, in chaos' aftermath; what a presence, he remembered most. Her breath coming out in white huffs, in spite of the night not being that physically cold. She had been the strongest fixture, and Shawn had longed to go right up to her, embrace her, he wanted her spirit to seep into him, fill up his marrow.

But it was the night he'd almost died too; he was out of daring.

After a while of this, wall to wall Juliet, just as she was—after she had learned she knew the enemy, Shawn felt his heart pounding in his ears. Those tales in storybooks mostly had relatively happy ends. Well. It was . . . could be. Black and white, wasn't it? The good prevailed, the bad perished, life went on. Sure. Sure it did.

Where did he belong in this tale? In a wasteland, left and forgotten about, rotting?

Maybe.

He had no one to face, then, no one to go face to face with. Shawn turned the phrase over and over in his mind, until just the word "face" rolled off his tongue, monotone. No one to face. No face. Face. He touched his own, to be reassured he hadn't lost his.

# # #

"McNab! There you are," Lassiter called out, startling the younger officer. McNab, standing at the small hutch where the coffee pot and cups were housed, had had his back to Lassiter. McNab turned fast, spilling a few drops off coffee on the floor. He stared at it nervously, then flicked his eyes to Lassiter's approach.

Lassiter kept his pace even, noting that McNab stood stock still, torn between curiosity and fear. As Lassiter drew closer, McNab broke out a smile.

"Sir, is there something I can do for you?"

Lassiter nodded, forcing himself to smile. "Glad you asked." As he reached the hutch, Lassiter patted McNab's shoulder. McNab again looked nervous. Lassiter looked over his shoulder in both directions—all clear—then turned back to Buzz. "Look," he began, dropping his voice, "I'm about to entrust you with something vital and important." Lassiter paused to be ensured McNab was paying attention—and that what he was about to ask for would not be shared with any other member of the department. "What I need most from you, McNab, is a sworn statement that you will perform this errand discreetly, keep your findings to yourself, and present only me with a written report." Lassiter raised both eyebrows. "You think you can handle that?"

McNab's eyes, Lassiter had noticed while he'd spoken, had grown fuller, twinkling with enthusiasm, earnest to fulfill anything Lassiter might ask of him. As he'd opened his mouth to speak, Lassiter cut him off. "Because if you think you can't handle it, I'll have to turn this project over to someone . . . much less qualified than you."

McNab looked worried; he didn't want to lose his chance. He shook his head furtively, about to start pleading to do it—in spite of not having any clue what it was. "No, sir, Detective—I mean, yes, sir—I mean—I mean, you can trust me, sir."

"Glad to hear it." Lassiter stopped him from saluting by pretending to throw his arm into the air at McNab's shoulder the same time the officer was raising his hand. Lassiter barely suppressed rolling his eyes, but made himself apologize for his "clumsiness". "Oops," he mumbled. The last thing he needed was for someone walking by to see McNab playing boy scout; what he needed here was secrecy.

"But we're clear, aren't we?" Lassiter asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Clear?" McNab repeated, sounding confused.

"Clear that this important project's results are for my eyes only," Lassiter continued firmly. He was dreading the next part, because he knew McNab was not as daft as he looked; he was bound to have questions. "I need you to . . . this is top secret, McNab." Lassiter staged whispered the words "top secret". "You are not to discuss this with any of your buddies, O'Hara, or the Chief. To be safe, don't mention it to anyone. Do I have your word?"

For a moment, McNab was speechless. Then his face split into a grin. He looked proud. "Gee, yes! Yes, sir!"

"Great," Lassiter said. He put his arm around the officer's shoulder, steering him away from the hutch and down the hallway. "Let's talk more in private." When they got in view of people, Lassiter dropped his arm to his side so as not raise suspicions he was buddying up to McNab. It occurred to him that some might think he was veering towards his version of normalcy, while others would wonder if he was up to something—or possibly sick beyond repair. Lassiter quickened his pace just slightly so that he was a few natural steps ahead of the officer. He got the door of an empty interview room and went in first. McNab followed, leaning against the table as he waited for Lassiter to explain.

"McNab," Lassiter began once he closed the door, "what I need you do for me requires a bit of a journey into the past." He swallowed, feeling his mouth suddenly dry. "I need—" Lassiter coughed, turning away for a moment. Why was it so hard to go back to that day and discuss even the minutest parts of it in front of other people? Why did it flash before his eyes as if it were a never-ending dream? He took a few seconds to collect himself. "I need you to trace the records for my cell phone from the day I . . ." Lassiter stared blankly at the wall. "The day I ended up in trouble." He jerked his eyes to McNab, fiercely hoping he would not have to say more.

McNab stared back with seriousness. "The serial killer?" he breathed. Buzz abandoned leaning against the table. He had not been among the group off officers led by the Chief and Juliet O'Hara to find Lassiter that night, but he had certainly been there after, visiting the Head Detective in the hospital as soon as visitors were allowed. At first, he didn't know what all of the bandages were hiding, but eventually he learned just enough to turn his stomach. To Buzz, the past situation was still unreal, nearly impossible to believe, but he was grateful that, in this "new reality", Detective Lassiter was alive and well. Still kicking, functioning.

Lassiter nodded, relieved, then gave the approximate time he'd likely sent the text. (He'd already spent a long time thinking it over—long enough that he'd gained a time frame so he had proof when he went to confront O'Hara.) "That phone was destroyed," he continued, "but I know there are records that can be located. All I want is the number and name to which I sent an errant text message." He pretended to look apologetic. "It seems like a small thing, but it's not."

Buzz nodded, chewing on it, but started to look scared. He wagered a question. "But, Detective—to do this I'll have to let the techs in on it, and you said—"

Lassiter shook his head, his eyes flashing with annoyance. "I already thought of that," he snapped. "What you will not do is offer any other details that what I tell you. Is that clear?"

For a moment, Buzz seemed to shrink as he winced at Lassiter's harsher words.

Lassiter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn't lying before; he really did trust McNab—and only McNab—to carry this out for him with absolute secrecy. It wasn't going to help his cause if he lost the officer. "Look, this a matter of great importance for me. I seriously need your help here. Will you help me?"

Buzz breathed shallowly. On the inside, he was doing uneasy cartwheels; he had wanted to believe that the day would come where Detective Lassiter would need his help—but there was a tiny bit of niggling negativity that had always told him that day was likely not to ever come. But . . . it had. Instead of telling his snarling inner voice "I told you so", Buzz felt hollow in that spot within himself. This . . . this was not what he was expecting.

Still, it was not good to look a gift horse in the mouth. Lassiter needed his help, after all! Buzz banished his misgivings and put on a brave, friendly face for the detective. "I am committed to your service, sir. Whatever it is you want—I'm ready to do it for you."

Lassiter's mouth twitched. He knew he could count on this one. A biting memory; there had been a brief consideration of becoming more friendly to McNab—while still not upping the level of respect. He knew he'd better say it now, or risk not getting the chance to say it, ever. "Thanks."

Buzz was flustered, but swallowed it quickly. He was glad when Lassiter started talking again so he wasn't required to fill the silence.

"Now, I need you to hold onto your findings for . . . a couple of weeks. I'm . . . going on assignment outside of town, which is why I can't do this errand myself. You are to tell the techs that . . . this information is critical to the investigation, but it is also to be confidential—on my orders." Lassiter arched an eyebrow meaningfully.

Buzz nodded, but he looked baffled. It took him a few seconds to collect his thoughts. "Pardon me, sir, but you said you're going out of town for a case?"

Lassiter sighed. He stared at the floor, focusing on a dirty spot just to the left of a table leg. It could be blood, he speculated. "That's right," he affirmed.

"You and Detective O'Hara are going—"

"No," Lassiter broke in sharply, snatching his eyes from floor. "This mission is mine, alone, McNab. Let's get one thing crystal clear here." As he spoke, his voice rose in pitch and gruffness, and he stepped toward the younger officer, waggling his finger in his face. "You are _not_ to converse with O'Hara about anything I have told you in this room! And if the Chief asks you anything, you tell her that the favor is for me, and that if she has any questions, she can contact me directly." Lassiter's finger stopped a couple of inches in the direction of Buzz's nose. Lassiter stared at him. _He's no threat, get control of yourself,_ Carlton chided himself.

Lassiter cleared his throat and stepped back. McNab stayed where he was, chastised. "That wasn't your fault," Lassiter confessed, "but I took it out on you anyway. You're not a mind reader."

"No, sir," McNab replied. In spite of have just taken the brunt of Lassiter's outburst, Lassiter couldn't help but notice that the young officer seemed ready to embrace him at any given moment. Lassiter took another few steps back.

"You're dismissed," Lassiter instructed, throwing his hand behind him towards of the door.

After more than the few pertinent seconds it took to collect himself halfway, McNab hurried past Lassiter out of the room. His heart was beating rapidly; it was good to feel trusted, but he was still reeling from Lassiter's . . . apology?

The way he spoke it, thinly and evenly, came with a note of preparation—a "just in case" we don't speak again, ever. Buzz was almost tempted to go back, but he knew he lacked the years; Lassiter was much too unlikely to explain himself, let alone open up at all.

# # #

"When are you—?" Juliet began, trying to digest just as quickly as it was told to her the bomb he'd just dropped. He'd asked her at work—pausing at her desk for just under a minute—if she could stop by his place that evening because there was a matter of importance to discuss. Damn him for being cryptic enough to get her interested. Now she stayed in the chair that she had just sunk into, staring at the darkened front window.

"A week," Lassiter said, then got up and fidgeted with a wall calendar. "No, wait. Six days."

"Six days," she repeated. She wouldn't look at him. "And just what do you plan to do—"

Lassiter watched her clench a fist and then press it to the armrest of her chair. Because she didn't—or wouldn't—finish the sentence, he was left to assume just what she was asking. He knew he would falter if he went with the next of kin explanation—it was a bit of a white lie which the Chief had accepted, in spite of knowing full well that Carlton shouldn't be in charge of doing a death notification, since he was the victim. And he knew O'Hara already knew about his wild theories of unsolved Southwestern crimes and Saul's possible involvement in all. "I . . . I want closure," he told her. "Norton . . . my research tells me this Norton was Saul Grant's birthplace." Carlton ignored her sharp intake of breath, continuing, "I know you think that—" He cleared his throat. A part of him respected her opinions and concerns, he had to remind himself. "I know you think that none of this is good for me, but I just can't stop until I know the . . ."

"Know the what? The truth?" she cut in snidely.

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Juliet repeated. "You're doing this whole thing on a _maybe_?"

"What the hell else is there?" Lassiter snapped.

He could see her reflection in silver in living room window. She had opened her mouth to comment, but her lips remained in a suspended "O" for a few seconds. Then her lips moved to herself, but he couldn't read them.

_There's me._

"You . . . think going will bring you closure?" Juliet asked finally. She'd turned her head to the side; he was just outside her peripheral vision. "You're not going so you can take up some ill-advised one man crime solving mission?"

Lassiter growled, unable to help himself. She'd said it so nonchalantly, disarming him with the sincerity of her first question. "You really think I have the strength for that?" he shot back.

Juliet shrugged, turning back to the window. Her mind churned his words, thinking she should have accepted that drink he'd offered her when she first arrived. A few days ago, at the range—the days felt like years, now, after what she'd been told—Lassiter demanded why she cared about his well being so damn much—and she'd reminded him they were staying friends and partners with a quick jab to the stomach. He'd taken it like a man; he took it all like a man, she mused, uncurling her fist.

"_I have the right," she'd spat, her voice thick. Her eyes flashed. "And I'm don't give a fuck of how resistant you are to it—I'm sticking by you. So get used to it."_

_She was, he had to admit, terribly persuasive in this fierce format, but he still had to laugh. As of lately, he really couldn't laugh without it turning into a choked sob, or a cough, or a small mass of wet behind his eyes. "Why?" he asked again quietly, quickly wiping his closed eyelids with a loose fist. _

_Instead of answering with words, she socked him in the stomach. _

"_O'Hara!" he protested._

"_That's why," she returned cryptically, adding, "you know why, and don't you _dare_ ask me again."_

So far, he hadn't.

He'd excused himself a few minutes ago, claiming he needed to change a bandage or two.

Juliet wasn't sure if she shouldn't try reasoning with him—or hitting him—or if she shouldn't just walk away. Of all the things he would tell her, did it have to be _this_, a mostly vague "I'm taking a a few weeks' leave of absence"? And that he was going to take it in some tiny town barely shown on any major maps in New Mexico? She'd thought . . . she'd actually believed he had been making some progress when she got him to open up to her.

Tired of staring at her reflection—darkly—she got up and went to find her partner. This couldn't be it—all there was to say on the subject. Even if his mind was made up, even if his departure was in just six days, maybe should could persuade him to . . .

# # #

Juliet, though excellent at undercover work, was horrible at disguising her shock. She was lucky that Lassiter had her back to her, that he could not see her face—though at his angle she could clearly see his front reflected in the mirror. Her gasp was loud enough to draw his attention; she hadn't meant to stagger in here, to catch him with his shirt open, to see his scars.

Lassiter turned sharply, anger, then embarrassment, slanting his features. Quickly, Juliet covered her eyes, mumbled a sincere apology and backed out of the room.

It was too late to un-see. But . . . he didn't have to know that. Still . . . Juliet's cheeks flushed.

Juliet continued backing up, even when she was safely out of her partner's sight. She wished, foolishly, that by doing so she could erase a track in time, stop herself from overstepping her bounds.

She . . . she had seen the pictures, but . . . the jagged lines cut up and down her mind, forked, hissing, sharp and crackled like bolts of lightning. Her partner. Juliet breathed what felt like cold air. Her partner, held down. She knew she should leave, she knew lots of things weren't good for her—knew, deep down, that she had, like a paralyzing toxin, seeped into all of Lasstier's open wounds. He wasn't like her, he needed space . . . and he'd . . .

Held down. Sliced up. Deep enough to scar.

Juliet sat down on the floor on the outskirts of Lassiter's living room area. Her eyes were glassy with tears but nothing would fall.

She hadn't even meant to go in. All she had planned was to knock, her knuckles soft but firm on the outside of the door. Just get his attention.

He shouldn't find her like this, she thought, but right now she didn't trust the weight of her own body.

_See. There you are. You are not lost._

In his bedroom, still in front the mirror, Lassiter noticed vaguely that his shirt had fallen back open. He was frozen to the spot, afraid to move—a duel of rage and dissociation. He wanted to pretend she hadn't come in, gliding in like a ghost with no feet; she'd seen something.

Carlton heard her shocked gasp echo inside his brain. He swallowed hard, wondering if all that had run through him had also run through her—just what it was about those scars.

They were both here, safe in his apartment, but still, Saul was always with them. A wall between them.

Juliet didn't want them to be apart; if she knew all the dimensions of the wall she'd take a sledgehammer to every chip of brick. Quickly, Lassiter reached for the buttons on his shirt.

For unexplainable reasons, he was fighting a bout of irrational fear; _she was out there._ His heart beat fast. He had not heard the door open, or close, had not, even though only half-aware, heard her car start, or navigate away. She had the gall to stay, that little lost thing, parking herself in the middle of his space. Carlton swallowed hard. He left the last button undone; wasn't he always exposed?

He should lecture her about privacy, he should make her feel shame, he should make her apologize. In the hallway outside his bedroom, he faltered. At this angle, he just make out the back of her head. _Why is she sitting on the floor?_

Carlton cleared his throat. "Juliet," he said, still out of sight. He watched her flick her head towards the sound of his voice, but otherwise she didn't move. Her first name.

Who was he really kidding? Make her feel shame? Carlton felt suddenly much older, felt as if his bones were broken. He thought he might die if she asked him any questions.

He thought about how they were—who they were—before all this; heard someone, he didn't know who, whispering in his ear. _Just who? Just who . . . do you think? You are? _He took the hallway with the smallest steps. She had her back to him; she hadn't moved.

Weren't they both . . . just a tad more innocent way back when? Carlton tried to see it, tried to find the man he was, standing in Vick's office, catching his partner's eye as she slinked out, sympathetic. Those were their last moments—well, together. Separately, each unraveled in their own seconds; each wondering over the other one's whereabouts—dismissing each other.

_He's fine._

_I don't need her._

Pretending. They still did it as adults; he still did it, at his age.

Carlton stared at the back of her head, marveling, angry, that she kept staying. What exactly, he wondered, had she to feel guilty for? No other reason to stay.

They'd already sorted out the nature of their partnership—a teary mess of snot and sobbing while he still wore a hospital gown, tucked into a bed he'd never willingly have gotten into himself. They had both failed each other; they should both want new partners—but it was the opposite; they'd locked hands like magnets; they would have to be forcibly pulled apart now.

And he was pulling them apart. In six days, he was getting on a plane. Then he'd been in Norton and she'd still be in Santa Barbara, stalking about with her dangerous fists and her sharp tongue, solving the city's crimes just like any real full-fledged detective.

Truly, he envied her that. Some part of her was still just as she was, clinging to the life she knew.

He wanted to be furious, wanted to have the nerve to throw her out. Didn't want to care if she'd cry, if she'd plead, or slug him in the stomach again and cuss him out, again. Didn't want to believe she was sticking around like a kind a paparazzi or rubbernecker, waiting to get the perfect mental photograph that would sell for millions—that she could kept forever, within herself. But he couldn't help but believe that what she really wanted was sick—that she wanted to know sick, his sick. She wanted to take it in without a blink, wanted to pull him against her, hold him.

Carlton shuddered; no embrace was ever going to fix this. She could not . . . take this from him. He didn't want her to; perversely, the whole thing belonged to him. He couldn't give it to her, wanted or not. She was flesh, light, gleaming, made of glass and stardust. He couldn't . . . empty it all into her, change her color. He couldn't let Saul muck up her skin too, couldn't let the bastard press his lips against her cheek, or cut her throat. He hissed sharply.

"Carlton?" Juliet turned her head.

It was bad dream, a waking dream. He knew that Saul might always keep him neutralized with the touch of blade against his neck, but her . . . one day, she would corner him, hold him at the wrists, a gentle squeeze, and he might give into her . . . and then, it would destroy _her_. Carlton flicked his eyes to her; they could almost see one another.

He fought hard to remember her, smiling, leaving Vick's office on his very bad day. She hadn't heard his drivel, his promises—she hadn't known his plans, underneath. . . . All the chances he'd had, walking that maze, to contact her.

He couldn't find his breath; someone, half ghostly, gripping a hand to his throat. "Get out," he snarled; it was nonsense in the air.

She was on her feet faster than he thought possible. Her hand was on the doorknob. He only caught a glimpse of her face.

"Not you!" he called out. "O'Hara! Not you!"


	7. Chapter 7: One More Cup Of Coffee

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to PT Cruisers or Super 8 Hotels.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for the continued support and wonderful encouragement! I apologize for how long it takes in between updates, as well as for the many author responses I still owe many of you. Trying to get a handle on all the issues of real life stuff, but it seems to only keep working in theory. I'm not going to give up trying to get caught up, and I just want to let all of you know how much I love and appreciate your feedback! Thank you a million times over. :)

Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are always welcomed. Thanks so much for reading!

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**Chapter Seven: One More Cup Of Coffee Before I Go To The Valley Below**

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# # #

Henry pressed his palm against his mouth and leaned against his kitchen counter. The ledge dug into the middle of his back, but he stayed in place, in need of something solid—and pain inducing—to keep him from charging out of the house. After all, he could hardly enlist the help of the SBPD, and it would be, as Gus had already pointed out, a scavenger hunt without a list or a map. But, _the GPS in Shawn's phone?_ still raced through his mind, on occasion. Not without probable cause, another thought reminded in immediate response. He blew out another frustrated breath through his nose.

Everything doing, he still found himself shocked an hour after Gus's arrival and confession that Gus, as Shawn's best childhood friend, _had not seen nor spoken to nor heard from Shawn in nearly two month's time._ At first, Henry assumed it was a joke and scolded Gus, and Shawn by association, for wasting his time.

"You remember that night, at the hospital?" Gus said, his heart thumping in his chest, practically loud enough for Henry to hear. "That was the last time. Not that I haven't been trying," Gus amended quickly. "I even went to his last known apartment." He was lying to Henry; together, they'd visited the Head Detective's hospital room once, but Gus had felt that Shawn had already drifted away.

Henry raised an eyebrow. "He's gone?"

Gus nodded. He looked very downtrodden, but not especially worried, so Henry wondered if he knew something he wasn't letting on.

"Gus," Henry began with a big breath, "what exactly happened that night I met you two at the hospital?"

"Shawn didn't say anything to you?"

"No." He frowned. "And you left in quite a hurry, as I recall." _With no explanation, _he added with his eyes. To his surprise, a flash passed across Gus's face. "Did the two of you have a fight?"

Gus shrugged. "I don't know if you call it that," he admitted. "I . . . I got really angry with Shawn, and it took a long time—I hope not too long, for me to get over it." Gus looked really sad. "I know at least that Shawn is still in Santa Barbara."

The eyebrow raise again. "How do you know that?"

Gus explained about the cafe spotting, and deli spotting and other various locales he had checked. He hated that he was always one step or half step too late—he hadn't yet caught up with Shawn, though he'd started staking out these places anyway. Still, a man had to eat, and occasionally sleep, and still go to his other job and be presentable and even friendly. Gus sighed.

"Wait, Gus, I think you're getting ahead of yourself." Henry fixed his eyes on Gus. "You skimmed over what brought Shawn to the hospital in the first place."

Gus cleared his throat, unsure of why Henry worried him so much. He guessed Mr. Spencer might lecture him about the definition of friendship, but he couldn't help the way he'd reacted to yet another (bloody) mess Shawn had created. He sighed again, then started at the beginning, which meant going all the way back to the day that Shawn had brought them to the beach to look at another corpse—another victim of the latest known, or known of, serial murderer. At first, Gus considered omitting things, either out of protection for himself, Shawn or Henry, but knowing his retelling had holes because he was missing Shawn's side of it only made Gus want to put it all out on the table. Let Henry, the esteemed retired cop, make sense of every horrible tidbit.

"I guess it started"—by this he meant their rift—"with Shawn's text message. It told me nothing other than Shawn was going off to do something stupid."

"That's what it said?" Henry rolled his eyes with a sneer.

"Yes, it did. It said he was going to do something stupid to fix something stupider he'd done," Gus paraphrased. "But all day I'd had this feeling there was something important he wasn't telling me. And he wouldn't tell me, even though I asked him five times."

Henry nodded; he understood perfectly what this felt like, and how truly annoying it was. In spite of being Shawn's father, he did not always guess the right "something important", and was too often kept in the dark while Shawn acted on feckless, unguided notions.

Before Henry could ask, Gus continued. "But I found out where he went." Gus clenched his fists then ran both hands across his head. Henry noted that Gus was shaking with a bout of what could easily be rage.

Gus shook his head. He didn't know exactly what had happened while Shawn had been there, but as he replayed Shawn's whispered words in the station, he felt grim. Shawn had showed up at the police station covered in blood. He'd wiped out in the parking lot, tearing his clothes, but the way he'd come in, they way he looked—

Henry whistled to get his attention. Gus shook his head. He explained that his concern for whatever Shawn might be doing drove him to leave work and head over to the SBPD, where he tried unsuccessfully to convince Juliet and Chief Vick to investigate. Meanwhile, he told Henry, he'd learned that Detective Lassiter had been sort of missing, but he hadn't paid much attention to it.

"Missing?" Henry repeated. He recalled, from that night at the hospital, frenzied chatter at a nursing station, but he hadn't paid much mind. Probably because he hadn't heard any names directly, or seen any familiar faces.

Gus nodded distractedly. "I'm getting to that."

Again, Henry looked surprised.

"After I was there for a while, Shawn showed up." He paused, then explained Shawn's entire "routine" while Henry listened, wide-eyed. He told Henry about Shawn's appearance, and Shawn's explanation for it, then admitted to his violence against Shawn, after learning that Shawn's stupid errand had taken him to the hideout of a killer. Henry looked paler with each sentence Gus uttered, and Gus felt so bad he almost stopped. "I'm not sure how he knew—or if it was an accidental find—but Shawn found that the serial killer had taken Detective Lassiter prisoner." Gus sniffed, as if he could smell blood right now. He shook his head. "I didn't see Lassiter until after they'd—uh—I visited him in his hospital room once, but he was all bandaged up." Gus bit his lip. "I know that he was stabbed, in the side. Shawn said that Lassiter was going to die."

Henry felt the sharp ledge pressing him and moved away from the counter. He could no longer stand it, to be upright. Gus, smartly, had already taken a seat, halfway through reenacting Shawn's "vision session". It was draining to listen to, Henry thought. He tightened his fists but his fingers released too quickly; it was draining enough to hold onto anger when fear had a better hold.

Gus frowned. "We didn't talk very much, on the way there. I didn't go in there, the building, with them—uh, Juliet and the two of us were the first ones there."

"Why was that?" Henry's eyes narrowed.

Gus shrugged uncomfortably. He didn't want to speak badly of Vick; she'd had every reason to doubt Shawn after his ridiculous charade. Instead, he told Henry of Juliet's outburst, of her demands of Shawn, and how she'd rushed out of the station with the pair hot on her heels. "They . . . they went in," he told Henry, looking away. "I didn't."

Henry nodded; he knew Gus was very squeamish. "Why did Detective O'Hara let Shawn go with her?"

Gus's mouth twitched. "Because he knew the way."

Henry slammed his palm on the table, causing Gus to jump, and muttered a few choice phrases under his breath.

"It wasn't her fault," Gus said softly. He shook his head for the millionth time. "She was so . . . so pissed when she found out Shawn knew something about Lassiter's whereabouts. I guess . . . wait." His forehead furrowed as he recalled his first glances—before running away—at the beach crime scene. Lassiter was not there, he remembered, and Shawn had even pointed that out when he returned to the car. Still, he didn't know her motives—if her worries over Lassiter had manifested just before he got to the station, or if it had been festering much longer than that. He wasn't about to tell Henry that Juliet would have forced Shawn at gunpoint, if he'd been unwilling, to take her to her partner. But Henry knew Juliet was armed, anyway.

After a few minutes, Henry asked, "Do you know what happened inside?"

"Not everything, but I know the killer was shot dead, and Lassiter rushed to an ambulance shortly after Vick and a bunch of officers arrived. Shawn walked out with Juliet and Chief Vick, and then found me waiting in the car. He threw up," Gus remembered, on the drive.

Henry gasped softly. "Shawn threw up?" Shawn never had a weak stomach; as a boy, he'd seen plenty of inappropriate things, from scary movies to crime scene photos to actual crime scenes—though Henry often did his best to keep Shawn shielded. Still, even as a child, Shawn hardly puked over gruesome sights; it was more likely from overindulging (gorging) himself on picnic food or pizza or sweets that led to a queasy stomach. Henry wished he knew more; he cursed himself for not prodding Shawn on the night he'd brought him home, stitched up and bandaged and tight-lipped. Something struck him.

"Gus, did you—you didn't come pick him up then, a few days after that? To go get his bike?"

"No, Mr. Spencer," Gus said. "Like I told you—"

"Yeah." He looked grim, hating that he had made an assumption that Shawn was not "lost", that he had just gone off with Gus—that he'd had someone to talk to, at least. What he should have been doing was making up flyers, handing them out around town, with the most decent looking newspaper clipping he had of his son's face. _Have you seen this psychic? _Henry rubbed his eyes.

"I came to you because I figured there was a chance he might have contacted you—"

Henry smiled humorlessly. He could remember plenty of times that Shawn and Gus had had their childhood disagreements, choosing not to speak for no more than a week; but even when they were apart as Shawn traveled the world and Gus went to college, they managed to keep in contact. Henry felt a little bit sick; he could hardly imagine what could have occurred that drove Shawn to uncomfortable silence, that kept him from reaching out.

Still, for Gus to shoulder his rage for several weeks as well as he lugged around that pharmaceutical case made Henry _very_ curious to learn more of what had gone on. He made a mental note to do some investigating—wondered what he could say to Vick to get her to spill all that she knew. Maybe he could get some information from Detective O'Hara—or perhaps that giant puppy-looking fellow of a rookie who always greeted everyone with a smile.

Gus had caved first; his anger—rare to make appearances, hold on, a slow burn—had cooled within the last few weeks. He had, Henry understood, been making the best attempts. Phone calls, asking around, seeking last known residences, and now having a discussion with Henry. Henry . . . he'd been giving Shawn space, or so he thought. He wished he'd pressed Gus, or Shawn, for more details that night.

So, where were they supposed to go from here? Henry understood that Gus hadn't come here expecting Henry to fix everything; he wanted a partner, a team effort, because that's what he needed to find Shawn. That's what was needed.

_Please, Shawn,_ Gus implored silently, looking around Henry's kitchen, wanting to believe that his friend could somehow hear him. Would somehow forgive him. _Answer the phone the next time I call. _

# # #

Carlton navigated his rental car down the dusty, desolate stretch of highway towards Norton—a one hundred mile trek from the nearest major International airport, in Clovis. As it turned out, the airport closest to Norton—a mere eighteen miles from the center of the town—was the most expensive to fly directly in to; it was cheaper, his travel agent assured him, to fill up his tank a few times on the long journey through the desert. After economy seating, and the smallest economy rental car he could ever remember being assigned—nearly comparable to that PT Cruiser imitation Guster's company had allotted him—Carlton wanted nothing more than to stand in a cold shower with its pressure hard enough to bruise.

Hell, he should have just taken a room at a hotel close to the airport if he'd really wanted that. The best thing he could hope for in this upcoming hick town's Super 8 was a lukewarm flow that was _mostly_ free of debris, and a couple of thin towels as comforting as sandpaper.

The center of the town—both terms were up for debate in relevancy, as well as the actual definitions usually applied to these words. Though, for all his research, it was impossible to tell just what he would be walking into when all the pictures he saw were the size of postage stamps, from aged, out of date brochures, many for booming attractions just outside of Norton.

It was, Carlton guessed, a tight knit community—as small as those postage stamp thumbnails he'd been treated to online. (Or the one time he'd used his monocle to read an Atlas.) Turned out the town was so small it was barely a dot bigger than a period at the end of a sentence among the long stretches of deserts on the way to Roswell or Albuquerque. Not a place you stayed, if you had plans.

Lassiter swallowed. Not a place you could kill in—or make a killing in—without drawing attention; even business success might be frowned upon. All men there could be on some equal playing field—poor as dirt or as rich as a ranch's lands. He had a horrible feeling he'd stick out like a sore thumb. But it was fine; he wasn't treading ground to make friends, or gain trust, or be flashy about his fancy job title back home.

Back . . . home. Lassiter ignored a dull shudder that echoed through his bones.

As much as he despised O'Hara's stumbled glimpse at his hidden scars, Carlton felt a twinge of gratefulness that she'd been too distracted to notice his boarding pass, left somewhat carelessly on the top of his dresser. It was, he'd decided with little hesitation, a one way ticket. He'd given Vick a timeline because she'd needed it or she wouldn't have allowed the trip at all; sooner or later, his vacation time would run out. He'd told himself that it had been the relative expense of the ticket alone that had had his travel agent haggling him to fly into such a faraway airport. "Let's face it, Detective, your salary is paltry," she'd reminded him dryly. "You're not a millionaire."

The truth was—besides that he _wasn't_ a millionaire—he hadn't argued as much with the travel agent as he should of because, in literally driving the distance to Norton, he gave himself the leeway to change his mind. Just ten miles from the airport, he could turn back, or thirty miles; even an 99 miles he could . . . Carlton closed his eyes, reassured by the growl at the back of his throat. What was he really going to do, get back on plane? Go home?

Again, the word echoed dully.

# # #

_Just who am I . . . without you?_ The thought, its shell and all of its glittering shards ricocheted through her, on her way out of his doorway. _Juliet_. _Still whole,_ she told herself, she'd managed to get outside, with forward thinking _intended_. And she wondered, later, her stomach twisting, if her partner thought that same thought . . . about Grant.

She'd navigated the streets by rote, her mind replaying their hushed conversations—her own voice cutting into him with accusation, and his return fire. Friendly fire, which the killer had put him up to.

They hadn't exactly ended on a high note—not even the highest note Juliet thought Lassiter could handle in this situation—E flat—and it left her emotions in a restless limbo. She furiously wanted to understand—though her personal reasons of why were murky at best to her—the psychological reasoning behind Lassiter's words, because any inadvertent spilling of descriptive language that made the action of his torment come alive for her was nearly useless for her to process otherwise. Juliet ran Lassiter's declarations through a shredder, hoping that, if in pieces, she could make sense of what he had said.

And she wanted to know, no matter how brutal or personal, every last thing: what he had seen, heard, said, thought, touched, tasted, how much he'd rattled Grant with his own words or weapons, how much he fought back.

Juliet had unlocked her door stiffly, entering her darkened house, her thoughts still wild.

Her memory of him, their faces bent close together, his shoulders hunched to be level with her eyes. A few seconds before they were snarling at each other, eyebrows sloped, eyes lit up with anger. So close. They hadn't left things well, but how was that possible? She had seen his scars, heard him deny his sickening attachment to his torturer-abductor, and believed he was running away without her. And it left her furious—and empty, questioning everything she knew, or thought she knew.

"_Carlton, this sounds like Stockholm Syndrome! Why not let a therapist—"_

_Exasperated, he'd lashed back at her, "Did you ever think he had Stockholm Syndrome with me?"_

It was more than simple misspeaking; Juliet was chilled that Lassiter could actually mean what he had mangled in saying.

Perhaps, she had misspoken too; it was utterly delusional for her to believe he would tell a police sanctioned therapist a single _unnecessary_ detail. And this—this was not something he meant to say aloud; to anyone else, it would have been a life-altering, career ending mistake.

But said to her . . . Juliet closed her eyes. It was a real question that Carlton wanted her to answer.

Juliet tried to fill in the blanks of what she didn't know of what Lassiter had suffered. His words left her with cryptic clues, pieces that didn't fit together, and to top it off, he was not a man who _shared_ much.

And yet he had already shared plenty, out of remorse or suspicion, she couldn't be sure. At the outskirts, she wondered if he secretly feared that she would tattle on him to the Chief if he failed to be clear. Was that the reason why he had told her anything at all? Not out of trust for their working relationship? Not because he knew that she'd always have his back?

# # #

No more, Juliet thought. No more . . . feeding him, getting him through the day. No more physical contact, no more on-sight assurance that he was here, that he was . . . as "all right" as could be expected. She sat back in her chair, unable to really believe it. Understand it. Lassiter's desk chair was empty, his computer off. Stacks of papers and writing utensils had been arranged neatly on the desk; his stapler was at an angle to his keyboard. His coffee mug sat next to his wire inbox, while it held only empty file folders.

She wasn't . . . so sure what to do with herself now.

And what was the reason given for his leaving? That he wanted closure? Juliet turned it over and over in her mind, twisting every which way to bring it any degree of sense. Her partner didn't take vacations. He never took personal time, unless it was ordered of him. Even on suspensions pending, he still found ways around to do his work, doing as much as he could without a warrant or a badge to get the perp clean.

But since he'd come back from forced personal time off—due to his inability to pass physical clearance—they hadn't gone out into the field together once. No. Lassiter had been "fine" enough with staying at his desk, staying inside the station. Is that why she'd assumed . . . he was going to stay?

Except that his leaving the state had not meant that he was leaving the force, or that he had abandoned his career, his arrest record, his job title, his parking space, his Sweet Lady Justice—

Juliet smiled bitterly to herself. No, her partner had only abandoned _her_. Which, she knew as she thought it over, could not be entirely truthful, but she couldn't ignore the sting of it, the notion of it, how it felt too true.

Juliet thought back to almost a week ago, to that last awkward visit to her partner's apartment; she was still going over it, trying to sort it all out.

Sometimes, she thought she was close.

In a way—in his way—he'd apologized to her. He'd caught up to her in the hallway of his building, and had let it slide that his outburst inside hadn't been directed at her. She'd stared back with glossed eyes.

"Him?" she asked quietly after a little while. "The killer?"

"You . . . you saw them," he replied, not looking at her. He touched his chest briefly.

"Carlton, I'm—I didn't mean—"

Lassiter shook his head, frowning. "I'm not leaving because of you."

"It's because of . . . the killer," Juliet filled in. "Everything you do is because—"

"It's not like that," he'd told her, his eyes hooded with shadows. But he looked guilty, almost ashamed. And it was after this that she'd incited his misrepresented words. She had demanded, as soon as she thought she'd understood, what the hell he meant.

In his haste to catch up with her—funny, really, since he had longer legs—his left hand had found her wrist; he'd pressed his palm against her sleeve.

She'd walked to her car, absently pressing her own palm against that sleeve.

"Come on, it's not like you'll miss me," Lassiter tried to joke with her after the heated silence where he'd refused to explain the Stockholm Syndrome comment. His voice was level, but a few volumes lower than its usual booming—well, what she knew he was still capable of—as if he was speaking this way in consideration of others who might be sleeping nearby.

Juliet frowned, uneasy. Sometimes, when she looked at him, she wasn't all together certain who she was looking at. It made her want to smack him in the face to goad his old personality out of hiding. "I already miss you," she said under her breath.

Either Lassiter didn't hear her or pretended he hadn't. "Come on, you'll be too busy to even notice." He gave a wrinkled smile, seemed to be waiting for her to say something—one way or the other—but Juliet couldn't figure out which version would hurt less.

But eventually she offered something he might want to hear—a confidence that she could handle anything that came her way. She could do it with a smile too.

# # #

Juliet shook her head and tried to refocus on a current case. She was still here, still needed as a helpful authority for the many as of yet faceless victims in her very own jurisdiction. And Lassiter had left her—in charge. She sighed bitterly, and her thoughts drifted off again.

She had tried to imagine it—through reading the words he put on paper, and from what he'd told her—in and out of context—but the true horror of Lassiter's experience escaped her. Even after she'd seen the pictures, even after she saw his scars up close, in person. There were days, few and far between, when he'd come in without a tie—or had removed it after a long shift; she had seen part of the scar on his sternum, an angry, bulging band of white.

"_He'll need stitches."_ Juliet clicked her tongue. Unbidden, Shawn's panicking voice flooded her mind. She could realize now that Shawn had sounded like he was on the verge—a tad hysterical, almost in tears. There had been an absence of good-natured teasing; in its place, a mess of words when five would have sufficed: "I know where he is." Had it been fair to place so much blame on him? Way to shoot the messenger, right? Juliet frowned and traced a coffee ring on her desk with two fingers, following the perfect, muddy circle around and around. A little bit of an ache was forming in her; before, she hadn't let herself miss Shawn's sporadic and unannounced presence. In fact, she'd pushed all of her emotions—or most, anyway—regarding his behavior on that evening away—keeping dust bunnies and half-started childhood dreams company in the back of her head. She had been refusing to feel.

Juliet licked her lips. She needed to get Shawn to come in, or venture out to the Psych office, sit down and have a talk with him. Get back on stable ground with him. He might be . . . all she had left.

Or she could . . . unravel herself, thread by thread, the whole time still clinging to something? Hell, but where was the sense in that? People who used to talk to her all the time now barely said two words to her. As if she was no longer worth it—worth the exertion or energy. But were some of those people—fair weather friends? Maybe . . . they were the ones not worth it, and she should know better by now—she needed to let them go. And for cops, they were terrible at truly reading people. Well. Not everyone could be a psychic, she reasoned. If she started pulling at the loose bits of herself, how was she supposed to put herself back together when it was done? Because, one day, it had to be done. Didn't it?

So . . . reconnect with Shawn. It was at its best when it was on paper, or less, when it was a burst of thought spiraling vaguely in her head. Juliet had done her best to piece together all the moments she remembered of that night when Shawn was present; even she remembered him leading her into the darkness of the structure. They were like two children, following a trail of blood; it made her almost sick enough to retch or dry heave just halfway in.

He knew the way, his path more clear then hers. Something leading him. If she hadn't been holding her gun, ready to brace it, she might have taken his hand. They'd moved quickly, in sync, absolutely no hesitation. Still, her thoughts had raced; Shawn's words had painted awful pictures in her head. Nightmares, she had heard in the station, before Shawn had spoken the word "stitches," a word that faltered terribly, as if it were an effort just to breathe it.

She remembered, with a bitter taste in her mouth, Shawn squeezing his fingers around hers, pressing his palm to hers. It was after . . . she had literally been forced to stand up and once she was standing she thought her knees might buckle.

But Shawn . . . he'd held onto her, even when she'd . . . Juliet closed her eyes. Dug her fingernails into his arm, dragged him with her.

Then he'd slipped through her fingers. She couldn't find him again. Not in so many months.

_Was it, really? _Absently, Juliet ran a hand through a tousle of blond curls that had fallen out of her clip. _Was it, _that_ night? The last time?_

_No, no, that couldn't be right. _Juliet recalled seeing Gus at the hospital once, dropping by to check in on Lassiter._ But . . . but Shawn . . . ?_ _Why hadn't he . . . _Juliet covered her eyes, sick at all that she had lost, in spite of any noble actions._ Where is Shawn? What could have happened to him? _

# # #

The drive, however, gave access to thoughts Lassiter had tried hard not to entertain. On the plane, he'd been able to study his notes and make plans for everything he wanted to accomplish in the first few hours he got into town. At first, he'd tried the AM radio, but the farther he drove from the airport the less signal he got for anything besides static. And he'd considered that it wasn't the safest thing to lose himself to his extensive plans and theories as he needed to focus all his attention on staying on the correct side of the road.

So that left too much space for Saul to slink in, to plop himself, unwelcome, onto the passenger seat. He was tight-lipped, as if he were purposely giving Lassiter the silent treatment, staring ahead out the windshield, waiting to reach their destination.


	8. Chapter 8: Nothing Without Effect

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

References made to a quite a few seasons.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thanks for reading!

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**Chapter Eight: Nothing Is Done Without Effect **

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# # #

Shawn fingered the handlebars but was not quite ready to get astride his bike.

He relished, in spite of the sorrow he faced, the errand in which he'd gone to retrieve it, slipping silently, unnoticed, from his father's house and into a waiting taxi.

Honestly, Shawn didn't know what he would find. At the time, he hadn't thought to inspect for any damage, and couldn't separate the crunch of the fall to determine whether his beloved Norton had taken the brunt of it, or if it had been his body that had.

Hell, it certainly felt as if it had been his body; the real force of the aches and pains hadn't started until the next morning—the most cruel of daylight he'd faced since being school-aged, awoken too soon after late night covert under-the-blankets comic book reading to go to class for tests he never studied for and homework assignments that were never done.

_Not quite ready,_ he'd told his body, but his eyes had still wrenched open as he lay on pillows spread across his father's couch. (He hadn't been able to do the stairs; not again, what if he fell?)

Everyone, gone. Rigid, Shawn felt pinned to the couch, a knitting needle through his belly button. The night's events flashed quickly, a sad, tired black and white with no sound. (The technicolor was to follow soon enough, the volume much too high. He'd had to grab his ears, put his head down, just ride it out.) Gus . . .

Gus had left him, Shawn recalled with pain, as if he was ever going to forget it. When he could check his phone he did. No missed calls, no texts, no voice mail. Just the dead silence of deep space. Of the grave. Shawn swallowed hard. He couldn't get off the couch, not without Henry's help—much to the nagging protests of his bladder.

His beloved Norton had barely been scratched—the left side mirror bent, some paint chipped off in the skid— but Shawn had, in the beginning, poured his heart into fixing its cosmetic damage—as soon as he had been able; much of the fixing had been in the middle of the night, a steady work while he was still wide awake.

Maybe it was the chrome and steel which had saved his life. The second time.

Where were they all going so fast? Everyone on the road had a motive, a secret agenda—reasons that kept them from constantly nearly running stop signs and lights, kept them from leaving a few car lengths for safety (of themselves or others). But thus was the way the world was, how people were—and they should be so lucky to not be in Japan, where the rush was expected, where bullet trains launched travelers as fast as they could from station to station, where bikes and cars and other forms of public transportation all moved quick as light in one immediate direction.

According to them, California was far behind—even chugging along at some peaceful, speed-walking pace.

Even himself—he was often going somewhere much too fast, pretending not to notice posted speed limits, pedestrians, or any kind of tailgating situation that would force him to idle, revving up his skin (and his engine) every few milliseconds because he was ready to be on his way.

That night he'd driven from Samarkand to the SBPD—he'd raced with his heart in his hands, tasting his own blood and muscles, his teeth chattering ceaselessly. He barely recalled the drive—even less so the trembling seconds when he'd lowered himself onto his seat, trying not to clutch at his squeezed, bruised throat. Shawn recalled most the swerve and the tumble—the skid of a lifetime, as he'd watched what little hope that had remained for redemption spill out and break into thousands of pieces, when he fell.

And with even less composure, he'd gotten up, aching and dying on his way up the stairs, his plan B rattling around useless in his head. But he had the show. The show was on his side—he could play up the theatrics, he could use it to slide back into his comfort zone.

Slide back, what a laugh. There was no going back.

He pointed the front wheel of his bike towards the road—the open road—but quivered senselessly with hesitation. _Just . . . just what could be out there?_ he wondered. Nothing good.

# # #

Saul was no longer next to him when Carlton pulled into town; perhaps he had been bored waiting while Lassiter checked into his room, dropped off his bags, took a few minutes to splash water on his face and sit down, dazed, on the edge of his bed.

For a good few minutes, his body tried to convince him to lie down and nap; truthfully, his eyes and head were swimming, unfocused. The day was already a long one, having started when the sky was still opaque with nighttime. But now that he was here, he couldn't waste what little daylight this day still had in it.

It had to have been hours, he realized, since he'd eaten a thing, or taken more than a few necessary gulps of coffee or water. This could be the errand to get him up and into town, a guise of satisfying a basic need for food now that his shelter had been settled. Lassiter hoisted himself to his feet, retrieved his Glock .17 and a ammo clip and loaded it. He secured it in his holster which was covered as discreetly as usual by a suit jacket. He debated what to do with his badge; it might not do to have it showing, just yet. He moved it to the back of his belt so that it was also covered by his jacket. He wasn't intending to go to local law enforcement just yet; first, he wanted to get a feel for Norton, NM. Today, he would take the tour, get his bearings, at least what he could with maps for guidance.

Carlton went back outside. It was hot and dusty; he'd expected no relief, coming all the way here.

Recent times, every now and then, stopped him cold—thinking of throwing in the towel, when he was not a man who had given up on anything. A few years back, he'd come dangerously close to the edge, when a nearly unfamiliar hopelessness gnawed him—when his livelihood was nearly stolen, when his badge was taken. This, more than the murder accusation, and more than having to beg Spencer for help, was the worst moment of his entire life. Was—still very close, even after Saul—the worst moment of his entire life.

But he hadn't bled out, then—even his own soul remained intact, stuck to his ribs like good barbecue.

Lassiter unwillingly found his mind reading over the memories when he was conscious and when Spencer was present—somehow more agonizing moments than when he was first alone with Saul. He remembered, strikingly, Spencer's sober mug, the faker's lips moving before his voice materialized: _"How long ago were you stabbed?"_ But Spencer had been uncommonly serious, almost uncomfortable engaging Saul in conversation, and had kept from pressing his fingers to his temple by making himself useful—putting pressure instead on Lassiter's two latest wounds.

He hadn't forgotten that Spencer had been there, part of the time, but Lassiter was loathe to think of it—his most degrading moments witnessed by someone who was still breathing. Certainly, his partner was exempt from these standards, only by the proxy of blurred images that registered as little earthquakes just under the skin on his face. She touched him and he was reeling, closing his body.

He stopped, keys in hand. He could see her, turning to him, a little perfect smile on her face. Carlton shielded his eyes; he could smell the heat and dirt—taste the sand, its grit between his teeth. There was no way she could be standing there, just a little ways from him, not a drop of sweat upon her in this glaring sun.

No. Juliet wasn't actually there. Carlton swallowed, feeling unease gather at the back of his throat. It couldn't be the heat; he was used to this kind of thing, and it hardly ever bothered him. But he was starting to think he needed to get himself inside, maybe sit down and take some long, slow sips of ice water.

Quickly, he got onto the road, already having studied the map. It was a short journey, less than five miles. He rode in tense silence, nearly holding his breath. He considered, as he pulled in, taking a driving tour—making a wide circle around at least main street—but he was having enough trouble focusing on the small sign which proclaimed welcome. He parked in a public lot and exited the car, checking the map for the nearest restaurant—or hell, nearest saloon. He wasn't on duty.

His intent was to keep focus, and edged along the sharp sunlight of the tiny blip of this unfamiliar town. After all, Old Sonora had prepared him in more ways than one; however, he'd reminded himself from a distance, Old Sonora had been a different kind of escape—and in the past when he was still young and stupid enough to keep hope like guarded secret in the palm of his hands.

Carlton took his time, doing his best not to look shifty, or too comfortable. He couldn't, however, look or act like a civilian; it was out of his nature and, as it had been pointed out to him rather harshly several times before, he was no good at undercover work. His guard was up—a neat, solid fortress, but he had a smile ready—strained, no, no, _easy_—for his lips. A smile . . . hers . . . in the dust. Nothing like hers. She could smile when she was crumpled up inside, a wreck.

_That's not focusing,_ he chided himself. But still, it was hard to let go of her. She'd become the kind of shadow he minded the least to have follow him; it was a cold comfort to know she had his back.

He seemed to consider her when he was most apprehensive or when he knew he needed a second opinion—and hers was the only one he often trusted; she had been a presence, a little bit of light to hold onto, figuratively speaking, when he had to deal with Saul. And now . . . he was "seeing" her in the desert, her smile making his eyes water.

Lassiter refused to over-think it, dismissing the reasons—other than heatstroke—quickly. Still, there was now a niggling in the back of his mind—like the prick of a pin—that O'Hara had always been between this lawman and his would-be murderer. Lassiter shuffled through the heat, trying to ignore how cold his insides felt, how his knees were threatening to buckle. Of course . . . of course she would . . . "follow" him here. . . .

He felt sickest because he had just realized that he'd put her up like a barrier, used her like a shield, to steady himself and block or dodge Saul's assaults. Certainly, she hadn't been _physically_ there for the duration, only manifesting when it was live or die—and he no longer had a say in the matter. She'd been . . . protecting him for a very long time, and he hadn't even acknowledged it. Memories careened through him; he had "conjured" her up like some goddamned security net, needing her to "take" the blows for him.

She hadn't flinched. Not once. She had not deserted him, though he'd played out all the versions of her hatred, of her disappointment, her anger—how she'd call him weak and demand a better partner. How she'd forget him immediately once he was dead.

_Don't be stupid. He was going to kill you._

It wasn't her voice, just his, inside his head, but she could easily have said it to him. Sometimes, he needed to remind himself that she hadn't followed a single one of his negative thoughts regarding her. Instead, she'd placed unnecessary blame upon herself, convinced he'd find fault with her because she hadn't been there to protect him—in the physical—much sooner.

Lassiter still was incredulous over this; the whole thing was his stupid mistake. He had walked right into Saul's trap, and the only way O'Hara could have known was if she had tailed him to the warehouse, or if she were psychic—

He frowned bitterly, and chided himself; he didn't believe in psychics of any kind. The past pinched, with claws and tweezers. Spencer . . . Spencer had been there with him, for some of it. Lassiter fought a full body shudder. For a very long time now, he'd almost had himself convinced that Spencer's presence was a result of delirium, a symptom of blood loss—but, as he recalled, it had made little sense to wish for Spencer's help when his partner had police training and a gun.

Little by little, in fact, he remembered the flashes when Spencer had been present—finding him on the floor after Saul shoved the dirty rag into his mouth; Spencer's annoying insistence that they get up and go; his stunned incredulity at Lassiter's staunch refusal; Spencer literally trying to stand up to Saul (one too many times); part of the slap he'd taken for Spencer to the back of his head; waking, in and out of consciousness for a long time—low tones.

In the hospital, he'd tried hard not to remember all of it. Even then, he'd wanted to believe that that he'd dreamed up Spencer just like he'd dreamed up O'Hara—but then O'Hara returned to the hospital when he was finally conscious enough to recognize her . . . and he just hadn't been so sure. Lassiter had, after that, chalked it up to being figments. How could Spencer have found him?

Lassiter's eyes fell upon a dusty bench a few feet away. He wasn't going to make it indoors just yet and if he didn't sit for a few minutes he knew there was chance of passing out. O'Hara had even mentioned, offhandedly, that Spencer had been present during his rescue—and that he was the sole witness, besides the two of them, to Saul's shooting death.

Lassiter sank onto the bench, ignoring the rattling in his legs. Come to think of it, he hadn't even seen Spencer since he'd finally convinced the idiot to run off and get help. Lassiter rubbed a hand across his mouth. Saul . . . Saul had told him he'd killed Spencer—cut his eyes and his face and his throat, just like that. Obviously, Saul knew how to lie well. Must have practiced for years and years. Lassiter looked around him, as if the small, old border town knew the how and the why.

Why . . . why hadn't Spencer been around to tease and aggravate him? To rub it in that a man with a hunting knife had almost gotten the best of him? To brag that he was a hero—and that the only reason Lassiter was still alive was because of him?

_That's not the only reason._

Again, Lassiter "glimpsed" O'Hara's face through the dust, the tiniest smile playing across her mouth. He'd seen her like that, so many times, in the hallways of the SBPD—just because, just because it was morning or afternoon, or after they'd brought a suspect in and got him or her to confess in record time. But now . . . now she seemed to him a ghost, and the entire image false. He'd never seen her. She wasn't really there to begin with.

At the back of his mind, a small sound, too soft and distant to be a human voice. Still, it brought him a few seconds pause; it was like a cry for help from someone else's dream. Another fit of coldness took his insides. Going back hours into this day, he had been in Santa Barbara, boarding the plane, and now he thought, strangely, that he'd been gone for much longer. Had he been gone so long as to forget where he'd come from—forget who he was? Or where he belonged?

_You don't have to go back there,_ a cold voice reminded him. _You don't ever have to go back._

This thought hadn't actualized within him—a lock clicking in place—until the plane's wheels touched down. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how badly he'd wanted to escape; this added an utterly sickening dimension to his long search into Saul's possible criminal history. And it made him glad, for the first time the entire flight, that he had been crammed up against the window in a row of what seemed like seating for children. No one could see his face—turned towards the runway, eyes heavy with what could be.

He'd felt a freeing terror, a pang of what might be loss. Anything could happen now.

_But you're still the SBPD's Head Detective!_ a voice reminded him. It sounded suspiciously like it could belong to McNab. Before it could talk him into, or out of, anything, he replaced the vacant praise with doubt—his thoughts ghostly shadows of what had passed through his head as he waited to die at Saul's hands.

_No one will miss me. They'll forget. It will be easy._

O'Hara. She'd slip in to his former role; she was geared up enough to be as high strung, type-A and ruthlessly demanding when he left, the place in between them unsettled. _It'll be good for her,_ he thought. _She likes to be drunk with power._

Lassiter swallowed dryly. He felt parched, as if he'd been without water for days. Maybe it was causing him harm—he was seeing things, thinking things, that were impossible. He started gasping for breath and closed his eyes. He leaned back against the bench, letting whatever mirage it was this time creak through him. He had no clue how to deal with these emotions.

Strangely, he had guilt; he guessed this came from his (somewhat conscious) acts of self sabotage. Sometimes it was easier to punish himself about the ordeal rather than work to sort out how he was supposed to feel now—not just feel but behave. He just hadn't felt like himself in a very long time.

He wished . . . before sneering the petty thoughts away—that he would turn his head and find O'Hara there, her face open, poised to listen to him.

_When this moment passes, _she might say, _you'll still have the next._ Then she would nod at him meaningfully, encouraging that he go on.

_That's right,_ another voice interrupted. Lassiter stiffened, as if he could actually feel Saul's breath against his ear. _All you got's this moment, going on forever, Lawman. This moment when I relieve your veins of its blood, and take all your strength into me—_

In spite of the conflicting voices in his head, Lassiter ironed his face of expression, and forced his hands not to shake. _I've been sitting here long enough,_ he told himself with resolve, though he questioned his own strength to move. It had not occurred to him that once he was here—in Saul country—that he might not know where to go from here. At home, the urge to put this to bed was stronger than anything—he wanted it more than sleep, food, and most of all, detective work. At home, Saul traced his footsteps like a shadow, following him from his apartment to the station. He never needed to sleep. This, too, hadn't occurred to him—that Saul would find him here, that he'd even think to look.

Maybe . . . the killer _wasn't_ dead. Maybe he'd taken a good hit to the shoulder, but the damn doctors and their damn Hippocratic Oath had fixed him, another faceless sycophant, good as freaking new.

_You know this isn't true._

The voice was sharp enough to almost hurt. Carlton shook his head slowly. No. It was better he was here alone. That he was doubting her—that he was seeing shadows and "hearing" stupid voices in his head—a shudder worked its way through him. She'd already seen enough of the before and after to last her an entire lifetime of therapy. Clearing his throat, Lassiter got to his feet.

He pushed in the doors of what looked like a mom and pop diner, almost knocked off his feet with the blast of cool air that hit his face.

The hostess, an older woman, looked up. "Just one, hun?"

Lassiter nodded, and followed her to a table. He was determined to stop wallowing and get to work, as soon as he was hydrated.

# # #

Henry waited in Vick's office for the Chief to return from her coffee break. Unable to sit still, facing her desk, Henry found himself standing at her windows, staring through the half opened blinds.

After a quick sweep of the hallway leading to the bullpen showed him little out of the ordinary, he ventured out, stopping at a corner to get a better look. His eyes were drawn almost immediately to Detective O'Hara—so focused at her desk she seemed almost obviously going through the motions. And Detective Lassiter wasn't seen, yet she was calm, almost angrily so, as she pounded her keyboard. Henry wondered if she knew anything about Shawn; if he got nothing to go on from Karen, maybe he could cozy up to Detective O'Hara, so to speak.

Juliet turned her chin—at this angle, it had a look of metal painted the color of flesh. Henry pulled back, unnerved, and headed back to Vick's office. _Maybe not,_ he thought wryly.

She had the look, he decided, of a woman who'd had something happen to her—in a situation where she'd lacked control, or insight, where she'd acted out of instinct, and now no one had better cross her.

He considered, however foolish, cornering her so he could get a better read on her mental state; there might be, he thought, something still in there that wanted to help find Shawn.

Vick first, though.

After speaking with Gus at length, Henry felt he ought to take the matter to Karen—not to file a missing persons report, but to get what he could of another side of the story. He called and she had been friendly enough on the phone, telling him within the next few days she might be able to find some spare time.

"Tomorrow," Henry prodded, feeling, though he couldn't see, the lines on her face tighten. "I want to come in tomorrow."

"If it's been months, you think you can't wait a few more days?" Karen retorted in a business-like tone.

Henry rolled his eyes to the ceiling, imploring silently the card he was about to play wouldn't get the receiver slammed in his ear. "_Because_ it's been months, and I _just_ I got the information," he told her exasperatedly. "Look, I've been thinking about this morning and night for two days straight. If it was your daughter, would you want to wait?"

In the silence following, Henry could hear Karen's breath, hot and huffing. He wondered if some part of her had also found Shawn's extended absence curious. Certainly, like him, she might have been too busy to give it much real thought . . . he closed his eyes guiltily.

"Tomorrow," Karen relented, her voice like a slap.

"Right on time, I see," Karen said as she entered her office, holding a mug.

Henry stood up. "I know it's short notice, but—"

Karen hissed. "Don't waste my time on half-hearted apologies, Henry." She got behind her desk and sat. He sat back down too. "Now, you wanted to talk about Shawn. So let's talk."

Henry summarized what Gus had told him, and then told her about his last encounter with his son, which caused her to appear bewildered.

Recalling what Gus had told him of her demeanor, Henry found his thoughts turning to Detective O'Hara again, prowling fiercely out there like a big cat. He felt a tingling on the backs of his arms. "Karen," he said, after clearing his throat, "is Detective O'Hara all right?"

Karen swallowed, but pursed her lips. "Frankly, Henry, that's none of your business."

Henry sat back in his chair. "So you don't know." He raised his hand in surrender when she started to speak. "I heard you the first time." For a few seconds, he studied her, unable to make out if she was discomfited or just irritated, either with his presence or his questions.

It made perfect sense why she would hesitate to call in Shawn for a case after what he'd heard from Gus; what made less sense for Henry was Shawn's avoidance of this place. In recent years, it had been impossible to keep him away, as if the SBPD building was a favorite hangout, much to the chagrin of working cops.

Sighing, he asked, "Karen, can you please enlighten me with a short version of what transpired that night?"

Henry wanted to know as many facts as he could so he could objectively confront the situation. All he had now was the aftermath Shawn had left him with, and Gus's point of view. He reflected on Karen's hesitation—how she took time to either gather words or process it all in her own way—how she was guarded when she spoke.

"Are you looking only for the missing pieces regarding your son, or do you want to know more?"

Henry fidgeted; learning the bigger picture might delay him answers he wanted right now; however, he recalled Gus had included Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara as he related what he knew. Obviously, they were somehow bound to Shawn, and the three of them somehow bound to the dead serial killer he'd read about in the paper.

If he'd known more at the time, he would have tried to assert to Shawn that he keep his distance, especially since one serial killer had already taken a shine to him.

"More," Henry finally breathed. He listened without interruption as she gave him what he asked. As she spoke, her features strained, Henry felt an unusual empathy for her; though her officers were not her children, she still had a responsibility for them.

"I hadn't realized Detective Lassiter went unaccounted for until Detective O'Hara pointed it out to me several hours later. Hours which, I can only assume, were spent tracking the killer and then . . . becoming his prey."

"Was he tortured?" Henry asked quietly.

Karen looked away. She guessed that Henry had seen the newspapers—the stories the press ran about the mutilated corpses found up and down Santa Barbara (though no markers had been released for print). When it came down to it, she found herself unable to affirm that Lassiter had been slashed repeatedly, tormented mentally, and nearly bled dry by the sadistic man. She settled on a nod, still looking away. "He lost a great deal of blood."

In the silence while he waited for her answer, Henry considered these unaccounted for hours . . . hours where, somewhere along the line, Shawn had figured out something was wrong. Karen had mentioned that he and Gus stopped by a crime scene and she had seen Shawn exchange words with Juliet. But how had Shawn known where to go . . . and when did he know?

Henry thought about the cryptic text Gus had received; were these the moments that had clicked for Shawn, when he'd made a dangerous guess about a serial killer and a missing Head Detective? He wanted more than anything to talk to Detective O'Hara now; whatever she had said to Shawn he wouldn't have ignored.

Karen turned her head, sighing as if trying to relieve herself of a heavy weight around her neck. "Henry, I believe I was much too hard on Shawn that night. In retrospect, the information most vital was to save a man's life."

In retrospect . . . Henry fully understood these terms when it came to Shawn. In retrospect, it didn't matter Shawn could be a sullen child growing up, because he became a happy adult . . . in retrospect, it mattered less that he called himself a psychic instead of a cop, because he solved cases (in his own free-spirited way).

"Shawn stood right next to Detective O'Hara," Karen continued, biting her lip as if to stop herself from continuing. But then she gave Henry a sad smile smile. "Detective O'Hara was very upset that night, even before we got there."

Henry nodded, remembering from what Gus had related.

"Henry . . . she's the one who killed him. Shot him right between the eyes. Lassiter . . . he was close to death when we got there." Henry's eyebrows rose. "Shawn stood by her, took her hand and held onto her while we waited for the paramedics to do their work." Karen took a sip of her coffee, frowning at its tepidness. "The fact remains, Shawn was the messenger. And in our haste, all of us, I would guess, turned a cold shoulder. But he came to us to get us to act. His warning is the sole reason that we were able to get there in time."

# # #

Words often flew from Shawn's mouth in split seconds, making the utmost sense to him in the quick connect between his head and his tongue as he breathed life into them.

"_Gus, don't be a gooey chocolate chip cookie." "Gus, don't be a rabid porcupine." "Gus, don't be exactly half of an eleven pound Black Forest ham."_

Gus was in his thoughts a lot these days. Gus often called him on—though not always—his nonsensical analogies, even if it was just with one of his perfected looks, a mix of glaring and honest disbelief.

Gus was still innocent this way—in his continuation of honest disbelief of Shawn's often off-the-wall words and actions, spanning all the years since they had first met, up to the present when they opened a detective agency together.

"I'm sorry I involved you," Shawn whispered, closing his eyes and recalling Gus's hesitation outside the building; how his nostrils had prickled, presumingly accessing their superpowers. The strong odor of wet earth and blood, sweat and fear, the air moist and chilly and charged up. Not even the prelude of afternoon rain had overrode the scents within; they fell out with unfurled, silent fingers, rising up angry and purple as twilight to snatch at unsuspecting passersby. Shawn wondered if they had made Gus uneasy, wondered if he could already tell, before any explanation Shawn could give him, why his guts seized up with dread.

He remembered sitting in Gus's car afterward, rocking against his seatbelt as if his heart might burst. The thoughts came, unbidden, of his near death, then, his stomach knotted. If only he could have expelled it all when he threw up, as if somehow the physical act of being sick had an effect on mental sense.

Words, a flow of them or even just a few pressed upon the endless space before him, no longer did it for him. He could no longer talk himself out of it, or into it. In fact, when the rare occasion arose for him to talk through what he could see unfold as clearly as he wanted in his head, Shawn heard himself stutter, heard his own words twist and morph on his tongue.

Sometimes this, more than anything else previous, frightened him the most.


	9. Chapter 9: You're A Stranger To Me

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own reference to Stephen King's _Carrie_ or _Stand By Me_.

Author's Note: Thanks many times over to my readers and reviewers and for all your support, encouragement, feedback and constructive criticism. Enjoy. :)

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thank you.

Note on Native American words: _kaga_ (Lakota: "demon"); _gode_ (Apache: "shadow spirit who haunts dreams"); _katiyimo_ (Lakota: "enchanted mesa"); _Aiyana_ ("eternal blossom" or "forever flowering").

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**Chapter Nine: You're A Stranger To Me, You're A Danger To Me **

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# # #

Henry almost left without talking to Detective O'Hara; it was almost easy to convince himself that, as Karen had originally put it, it was none of his business, the portrait of on-duty misery following the kind of ordeal that rocks whole departments, or this in case, choice individuals.

It was hard to believe that Lassiter had been in a position where he had been physically unable to defend himself due to great injury, Henry thought. It was even harder for him to picture the Juliet O'Hara he knew—or used to know—blowing the brains out of the killer. There was still the constant refusal to see either coming off as weak, given the situation; even with extensive training, it was hard to guess what his own reaction might have been if he had been faced with either possibly.

According to Gus, Shawn had been inside with them at the time . . . what if he had seen?

Shawn was no stranger to witnessing suspects get shot; he'd been at close proximity at least twice, to Henry's knowledge, when suspects were wounded by SBPD fired shots. But . . . he had never seen anyone shot to death right before his eyes.

Shot to death by . . . Detective O'Hara, no less.

No, he had to talk to her, regardless of Vick's muted warning, or his own hesitation. She might have little to tell, might not know much more than Gus, but there was the chance she could fill up small gaps in time when she and Shawn went into that building together.

The articles from months ago about the killer's demise that he had read in the local papers gave nothing away; either Shawn had declined an interview or worse still, hadn't volunteered. Surely, if he had been part of the solution (and surely, wouldn't his being part of the problem utterly skim his mind?), he would want the glory, deserved or not.

Henry thought about this. What could make Shawn _not_ want that glory? Not actively seek it out?

Shawn had wanted something akin to attention when he made that convoluted demonstration at the station, Henry considered. Hearing Gus talk about it had made his stomach clench. But then, according to what Karen had said, she herself had needed much convincing. Henry sighed, but made his way towards Juliet's desk.

When he was close, a dread caught him about the legs, causing him to stumble as if he'd knocked his shoes into a crack of uneven floor. _Was there . . . a faint possibly that Detective O'Hara was the wrong detective to ask?_ Henry stopped walking, feeling unnaturally cold, disquieted.

He had no interest whatsoever getting into Lassiter's state of mind. Karen, for what little she had said to him, had frankly said enough in silence.

Still, even if Lassiter was "fine" . . . Henry shook his head, feeling at a loss. How could he possibly get the detective to open up enough to gain insight into Shawn's current mindset? He didn't want to seem like he cared . . . didn't want to trigger an unwelcome flood of emotion, or much worse, never-ending, rage-filled silence.

Curiously, Detective Lassiter was nowhere in sight. He could be out in the field at the moment, but Henry hoped to find him to chat briefly about Shawn.

Always an unpleasant subject, Henry surmised, but in desperate times . . .

# # #

The question had only occurred to her once, poised on the tip of her tongue. It was much too thick to swallow, but she didn't want to spit it out, she didn't want to say it to him. It was too much of a what if scenario, and would do nothing to put either of them to rest.

Still, in the walls of her head, she posed the question to him, unable to gage his reaction, unable to even imagine it, one way or the other.

_Carlton, do you wish you had been the one to kill him?_

Juliet swallowed and coughed. One bullet shouldn't have been enough; what she wouldn't have given to unload her entire cartridge, or to cut him in half with a close range shotgun blast. She ran her palms over the cool surface of her desk, taking breaths in through her nose. The question brought her a mix of emotion: a knot of anger which went straight to her head and a flash of sadness which rattled her bones.

He might not even have an answer. Or her words might go through him without being absorbed, without being heard.

But one bullet had been enough. Her bullet.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. What a thing to cause a smile.

Killing a man. No. Killing _the man _who hurt her partner. Killing the man who almost _killed_ Lassiter.

Juliet flattened her lips, resisting the grin. It wouldn't look right, if she had something to smile about.

Now, with detached disinterest, she watched Henry Spencer approach her. A pang, a tiny stone into a well within her body—he could only be here about his son.

What about that promise she had made to herself, that white lie about trying to find Shawn?

Lying. Now she had no choice; she couldn't possibly tell Shawn's father who had been on her mind 24/7, as it hadn't been Shawn.

# # #

Carlton used the sleeve of his dress shirt to wipe sweat from his brow without evening thinking about it. Funny, that his outsides were so hot when his insides were so cold, in spite of his futile attempts to dredge up anger and exasperation. They had drained as he went over it again, unable to push it aside for its sheer stupidity alone.

He was thousands of miles from home and still, a charlatan, a _seer,_ had found him . . . found him vulnerable? Was that it? Carlton frowned, not able to believe his bad luck. Once out of the diner, he'd stopped for a couple of seconds to check his notes and map, and she appeared in his path when he turned back towards his car.

Or it was that she danced in front of him, her long skirt catching his eye as its hem swung across the ground, stirring up dust. She wore earth tones but also jewelry of silver and turquoise, adorning her ears and neck and her wrists. He guessed her to be mid-twenties, of Apache or Navajo descent. He'd found her mildly attractive, with her dark eyes and hair, before she started speaking to him in a steady but dreamlike manner; even when he flashed his badge at her she was not deterred to stop.

"A presence," she whispered, "you have a presence . . ."

He flashed her a quick, mean glare and gritted his teeth. "I _am_ Head Detective of the Santa Barbara—"

"A presence attached to you. A mass, negative energy," she continued as if she hadn't heard him, aiming her dark eyes intently at something—nothing—at the back of his head. Instead of touching her fingers to her temples, she began gesturing around her own head. "An evil presence, _kaga_, he has become _gode_. He took your blood—"

_He?_ Carlton saw red, and felt it color his face. "Who told you to say that?" he blurted angrily.

" . . . You have a presence right here, right here, about your shoulders, your throat. A weight." She hissed and closed her eyes as if in pain. "Even in death, he walks with you, he walks a few steps behind, into the shadow land. He still grips the handle of a knife . . ."

Lassiter froze, confusion and anger flashing across his face. Instead of the expletives he wanted to yell, the demands he wanted to make of her of what she meant, he spat out, "Just who the hell are you?"

"It could have been years you laid there, in what could have been your grave," the woman replied instead as if she, again, had not registered his protestations.

Whether he would it admit it or not, he could drift on a sea of restless dreaming; could hardly lie flat on his back without thinking about it, without perceiving the outline or the shadow leaning close and closer to his face. And now this woman had said what he had thought of, and dreamed of, countless times. "Grave," he repeated, angry suddenly for "playing along". "Just a minute—" he tried again.

The woman reached for him, as if to keep him from fleeing before she had her say. Her grip surprisingly firm on his arm. "I am Aiyana," she told him softly, "I am chosen to see."

Lassiter pinched his mouth shut, doing his best to convey that he didn't care the woman had shared her name with him, that he didn't care about her or her words for him: _"You have a presence attached to you." _He was irritated to be in a different state and to still be plagued by an insistent person claiming to be "touched by spirits".

Saul grinned a coyote smile somewhere in his head, all sharp teeth. The smile was devoured in fit a raspy laughter. Lassiter paused, listening; he always had to listen, though he never wanted to.

"Attached to you," the woman breathed, keeping her fingers pressed to Lassiter's suit jacket. Lassiter scowled. "Drew you to _katiyimo_—"

"Kati-what?" Lassiter interrupted, trying to step out of her reach. She had already used foreign words that he'd failed to catch—though he told himself he didn't care.

"_Katiyimo_," the woman breathed, "enchanted mesa. This place where he found you." Her eyes opened. They were a startling brown, warm and wise. "This place where you gained your scars." Without warning, her hand slid down his arm to grab his wrist.

For the love of Mike, was there a sign painted on his back? _Kick me. Kick me while I'm down. _"You hippie freaks are all the same!" Lassiter barked, pulling his arm free of her grasp. "I should have you arrested for assault on an officer of the law!"

Aiyana remained unflustered, even after Lassiter's wrenching sent her back a few steps. She held her hand out as if she were still gripping his wrist, checking for a pulse. "She would take those scars."

His face grew purple with rage and discomfort. Whether he believed her or not, her words and "knowledge" of things and people she could not possibly know or know of were starting to wear on him. "They're not for sale! And I'm not giving you any spare change! Go get yourself a real job and stop harassing me!"

"She would follow you—a source of light," Aiyana went on. Her voice was soft, her tone as even as bells. "A personal source of strength." She pressed her right palm to her heart, as if she was about to recite the pledge of allegiance. "She is with you, she stays. That is her hand is on your arm."

Lassiter swallowed, staring at her.

Aiyana stared back, unblinking, as the words hung in the air between them. Finally, Lassiter broke the silence, growling, "Go crawl back into the hole you came from." He turned away quickly, stalking off towards the lot where he'd left his rental car.

"Not even the presence hovering about you can shake her off. She would fight your demons."

Lassiter's shoulders hitched and he froze mid-step. His lips moved but he couldn't bring the sound to term. Instead, he clamped his hands to his ears, and left, softly muttering, "I can't hear you, I can't hear you."

It didn't occur to him how ridiculous he might look, how much he might look like an outsider anyway, besides this behavior, until he'd taken quite a few long steps away from her. A glance backwards told him she hadn't tried to follow; her long skirt fluttered in the faintest wind—a breeze that only seemed to touch her. The expression on her face was mystifying; he had no clue why she looked sad, her dark eyes heavy, why she was still fixed on him. At last, he dropped his hands from his ears. A cold sweat had found its way under his collar on the back of his neck, but he couldn't be sure why.

As he pulled out his keys and opened the door, a sensation of vague stupidity fell across him like a shadow. He folded himself into the seat and hastily slammed the door. Why was no place sacred? He couldn't go anywhere and not be accosted by someone claiming to be spirit touched. Psychic. "I speak for the dead." What the hell, did he look so gullible? Or was it that something about his attire screamed "free handouts"? _Kick me. Kick me while I'm down._

Though she, this Aiyana, hadn't used any of those words.

Sweat gathered on his upper lip as he waited for the air conditioning to kick in. Her words were starting to pierce him, and it made him feel ill. She'd used words he was unfamiliar with . . . she'd said things to him that seemed impossible for her to know . . .

Carlton scrunched his brow hard with thought. Could she have read something about him in the papers—even though the papers were local and specific to Santa Barbara only? And the story had run three months ago, nearly immediately following Saul's death. But the details of . . . Lassiter closed his eyes. Vick had been dead serious with the media, threatening all the aggressive reporters she came across, that only limited knowledge be given for public consumption regarding Lassiter.

Still, SERIAL KILLER SHOT DEAD; HEAD DETECTIVE FOUND was still a neon sign in his head. The other paper had not run a front page headline, choosing instead a small blurb within:

_Thanks to the expert policing skills of our own Santa Barbara Police Department, the man known briefly to the public as "The King of Hearts Serial Killer" was shot dead yesterday outside city limits. DET. C. Lassiter infiltrated the building the killer—John Doe, as yet his identity has not been discovered—was found to be hiding in. DET. Lassiter, attempting to obtain backup, was ambushed by the killer._ _A reliable source tipped off Chief Vick; her quick actions, as well as those of DET. Lassiter, stopped the murderer after the man refused to relinquish his weapon._

Miraculously, the down and dirty details had been spared and the small blurb found him looking more like a hero then a victim. His only regret was that his partner had no mention.

O'Hara had made no comments about the articles; she had, in fact, after seeing his reaction to one blaring headline, announced that she had not read the paper for quite some time. She was, she had said, uninterested in hearing what outsiders had to say about the whole affair.

The whole affair. She'd given a dour expression quickly, as if she were numb to other word choices regarding it.

Carlton put his hands on the steering wheel, annoyed to see his fingers shake. The encounter with this woman was forcing him to think of a conversation he'd had with O'Hara about Spencer's presence that night, one where she had done most of the talking.

Spencer arrived at the station looking worse for the wear, she'd told him, and then explained he'd had a vision that he knew the serial killer's location—and Lassiter's as well.

But what bothered him most was how Spencer had known where to look in the first place. And also why Spencer hadn't known better to bring some backup with him; clearly, neither one of them had had any sense that night. If Spencer was as psychic as he proclaimed, why couldn't he have _seen_ what he was walking into?

Lassiter snorted derisively. What he was partially upset about was that Spencer had brought about Saul's death, a feat Lassiter had been incapable of doing himself. Spencer had brought the hired gun—or was she working for free? He sighed. It wasn't fair to O'Hara, but she wasn't the one privy to "visions"—locations and names and deaths.

This woman hadn't named names, hadn't even said his name, but Carlton couldn't help wondering if she had somehow been able to—he rolled his eyes—_read_ the constant that took half his thoughts, as if "the she" had a viable reason to compete with Saul for his attention. O'Hara.

"_She would take those scars." _Lassiter straightened, running his hands over his face. Did it really matter who had killed Saul? Even if he had been able to do it himself, wouldn't he still find Saul to be "kept alive" with memory, the kind which pounded his head, taunted him mercilessly with "what ifs", saw him through the waking and sleeping hours?

Okay. So, she had a viable reason, Lassiter decided. He started the car.

# # #

Steeling himself and feeling silly for doing it, Henry stepped towards Detective O'Hara's desk. Up close, she only appeared older than she was supposed to look—dark circles, hair pulled back too severely, her petite mouth fixed in a line. Her lipstick had worn off.

At his approach, she glanced up and smoothly slid a few papers into a file. Out of sight almost too quickly, but not before Henry caught the letters, upside down, "ndfather". Juliet turned to her computer screen and began to type. No greeting; she had surely seen him, but she continued to work.

Henry found this weird. He cleared his throat. "Detective O'Hara?"

When she flicked her eyes to his, Henry caught a flash of her partner—hard, cold, angry for time being wasted. He decided these impromptu moments were not the time to ask her about his son, not when she was coiled up, when she could strike. He wrestled an apologetic smile to his face and eyes.

"Don't mean to bother you," he said, waiting for her features to relax. They didn't, but he had her full attention. "I was just in talking to Karen and it slipped my mind to ask if Lassiter's in today. Do you happen to know?"

Casually, he took a seat adjacent to her desk, thinking he could wait there for Lassiter, and work up the courage to ease Shawn into the conversation.

Juliet's shoulders hitched. She rotated her neck back towards her screen, annoyed that Henry was making himself at home. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer," Juliet began coolly, "the Chief didn't tell you? Lassiter left."

"Left?" Henry repeated, puzzled. "What do you mean? He _quit_?"

For a few seconds, Juliet looked lost, sad enough to tear up, then she regained composure and shrugged. "He took some vacation time, and went off to New Mexico."

"What's in New Mexico?" Henry blurted before he could stop himself.

Again, Juliet shrugged. "More ghosts, I think."

Henry stared at her; the way she'd said it, so casually, then turned immediately back to her paperwork unnerved him. As he'd considered her mere appearance earlier, from Vick's office, up close he also found demeanor to be tilted. Remarkably, he was reminded of Gus's state of mind—the remorse and unease he presented at falling so out of touch with Shawn.

"Detective, have you been in touch with Shawn? Has he called you, or stopped by?"

He watched Juliet carefully, watched her as he held back an exasperated sigh, as she gritted her teeth. "I haven't, Mr. Spencer. I assumed . . . he left town, himself."

"Looking for ghosts?" Henry asked softly.

Juliet shrugged. "Escaping them."

It was a curious response, he thought, but she wasn't keen to offer more. He could try to interrogate her, but maybe his previous thoughts had been correct: she wasn't the one to ask. For a few moments, he debated asking her about her solo time with Shawn, but wondered if it wouldn't be better to go straight to the source.

Shawn, when found, would want to talk about it. If he knew his son.

Rubbing a hand across his mouth, Henry stood up. It felt funny to say a polite "thanks for your time" so instead he muttered, "Take care of yourself, Detective."

Juliet nodded without looking at him, and spoke to his back when he was a few steps away. "That's all there is now."

Henry kept walking as if he hadn't heard her. He wished, on some level, that he had not.

He made a mental note to ask Karen about it if his and Gus's search for Shawn yielded nothing. He knew Lassiter never used his vacation time; but then again, he'd thought he knew Detective O'Hara to a tee. After all, Shawn was always liberal in his descriptions of her; even hardened felons sent her Christmas cards, Shawn had once said.

Still, it was unlikely that Karen would share more than she already had, about either of her two top detectives.

On his way out, Henry's attention was caught by three uniforms, the one in the middle being the tallest officer on the Santa Barbara force. The three were smiling, which Henry took as a good sign. Outside of Karen, it looked like Buzz McNab was the only other one gone unchanged.

Henry cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Officer McNab?" He hoped he could get a little gossip—and maybe even a lead on Shawn. McNab nodded to his fellow officers and stayed to address Henry.

"Mr. Spencer. How's it going? Is there something I can do for you?"

Henry smiled.

# # #

Shawn sniffed the air again. He couldn't be certain if the air was heavy with a scent of steadily baking bread . . . or damp towels turning in a dryer at a laundromat. He felt unsettled enough to stop on the sidewalk. Shawn clenched his teeth, tasting something in what he smelled, but he couldn't be sure if he felt hungry or deceived.

For a few seconds, he was all right, as if nothing had happened that he'd like to banish to the deeper reaches of his mind.

_I hate a life by other people's rules,_ he thought, _and I hate the deceptions of the so-called real world. _Still, he fell for them each time without fail. Hope was actually a terrible thing.

This scent had pulled him from his newest apartment, beckoning pleasantries through a small window that refused to close all the way. Resigned to his own craving for food, he got up and starting walking, going in the direction he thought he smelled it coming from.

Shawn's eyes burned; still, he paused, turning his head slowly from left to right. People passed him and, as slowly as he had turned his head, he began to pick up small details about each, details which could unravel the big picture about each individual. Within him, a flicker of self. He read what could be scandals, bombshells, or the most joyful news. These parlor tricks were the reasons for suspicions and laughter and disbelief and acceptance—that he was indeed psychic, communing with unseen forces.

Well. It should say something that he could "commune" with a spirit he could "see", and he wasn't even psychic. Shawn backed up out of the main foot traffic flow and leaned his head against the glass of some storefront. He waited in the low grade shadows a partial awning offered. No one so far inside the store had complained of his presence, but he figured eventually he'd tire of this game. Or at least get distracted enough to wander off.

After an undetermined amount of time passed, Shawn's stomach growled. Sighing, he pushed himself back into the flow. It was hardly time well spent, but was that these days? He couldn't smell it anymore, whatever it had been, but he didn't want to go back to his apartment just yet.

On autopilot, he found himself on the boardwalk, buying Churros with crumpled dollar bills, staring across the way at the darkened Psych office. On the same whim, Shawn went towards it, surprised to be here. He hadn't thought about taking cases in three months because he'd been preoccupied. Or was it . . . something else? Shawn stared at the office, scanning over the familiar details he recalled. The paint wasn't peeling off the window; actually, the window appeared clean, both inside and out. Shawn furrowed his brow.

If he had his keys, he wouldn't have to window shop, so to speak, right now. This place was the symbol of that life he had liked to lead, the one where he had no one telling him what to do, where only his "special otherworldly abilities" were deceptions to the real world. Deceptions which got him, eventually, to the truth.

Shawn swallowed. This place was his old friend, and he had missed it. He wandered around to the back door and pressed his face to the glass. It was too dark to tell what the place looked like on the inside, but it was still here. Gus must still be paying the rent, anticipating its reopening.

For the first time in a while, Gus filled his mind without bringing him sorrow or anger. Maybe the Psych office was proof enough that Gus hadn't lost hope. Hadn't lost hope in him.

Shawn turned quickly, suddenly overwhelmed. He moved quickly to the front, taking a last gaze at the Psych window—and started at what he saw in its reflection. Facing forward, he stopped, shocked; he had been so absorbed that he hadn't even heard the car, or the footsteps.

Gus froze too, his arms stiffening around the paper bags filled with snacks and cleaning supplies. His mouth agape, for a few seconds he could do little more than stare. For all his searching and attempts at following and talks with Henry, he certainly hadn't expected to stumble across Shawn here, in the least—or most—likely place.

Gus looked his estranged best friend up and down, noting that he'd lost weight and hadn't shaved in an especially long time. This sort of it made it harder to read the emotions on his face, but his eyes looked tight.

They may have stayed like that until the sun set, but when Shawn blinked and took two steps towards the boardwalk, Gus dropped the bags and hurried forward.

"Shawn!" Gus cried, reaching out to catch the half-turned shoulder of his long lost friend. As soon as he clapped his hand down, Shawn winced, and Gus started at his reaction. "Shawn?" he said more quietly. The two of them stood frozen again, Gus staring at Shawn's face in profile, his more than scruffy chin, his long nose, his still perfectly coifed hair.

Shawn wasn't quite looking at Gus, but he wasn't looking away either. This felt like a bad, bad dream.

Was it all wrong, the way he'd gone about it? He'd never meant to make Shawn flinch. Gus waited, holding his breath, keeping his hold tight on his friend. Let the passersby who were staring at them call the police. He didn't care.

Shawn swallowed a few times, and realized as the awkward seconds passed that he was afraid to speak aloud. What if this wasn't real after all? What if he just . . . _Your eyes are open._

_What?_

_Your eyes are open, _a voice reminded him._ You are not asleep. _So, it was a bad dream.

"Shawn, where have you been?" Gus asked in that same quiet voice, biting his lip. "You had me worried. I've been looking for you all over."

As Gus' words washed over him, then through him, Shawn heard himself speak, just as softly. "You have? Gus? You—" Shawn jerked his head away. No, he couldn't believe this, this wasn't real. "You know what this reminds me of?" Shawn began sadly. "That scene in _Carrie_ the seconds before the popular crowd—destined to die—dropped the pig's blood on her—"

"Shawn!" Gus gasped with horrified unease. "I was going to say it reminds me that scene in _Stand By Me_, when River Phoenix says to Wil Wheaton that he'll always be there—"

Shawn stiffened, but found himself strangely unable to wrench himself from Gus' grasp. He wondered if Gus would get as mad as before—the repeated punches—but Gus just looked sad too.

"Shawn," Gus breathed, "I—I don't know what I'm supposed to say, other than I'm sorry, but you have to know you are not blameless in this whole thing. I'm sorry we haven't talked in a long time. I'm sorry I—was so angry—"

Shawn didn't move. He slowly processed every word, swallowing hard when he got to Gus' apology. Then he dwelled on the words "not blameless".

"Is that why he let me live?" Shawn asked nearly inaudibly, as if he'd found a new revelation which made sense.

Gus squinted. "What? What did you say?"

Shawn shrugged, not really wanting to discuss it. But then his mouth started to work, though no words came out. Then, just as softly, "Did he want me to suffer? Knowing I would live—and Lassiter would die?"

Gus shook him. "Shawn, what are you saying? I don't understand. Talk to me. Please," he added urgently as he watched Shawn's lips moving as if were really a psychic communicating with a entity no one else could see. Perhaps, bribery. "Pie?"

Shawn's head moved at the word. For a few seconds, all was forgotten; under the sunlight, the day was like any other, and none of the past events had occurred. But then Shawn remembered, and turned his head.

He could see, if he could actually _see_ it in front of him, now, so clearly, the outline of the maniac, make out the swagger in his eyes, the power he wielded in the upward tilt of his mouth. He didn't have to say it, not with words, as he never would anyway, never would have, anyway, had he lived. _"I ain't never gonna tell." _

Shawn waited, attempting to sneer back, frozen to the spot.

"_Pie?" the killer mimicked. _

Shawn's jaw tightened. "Pie?" he repeated.

"Yes, Shawn, pie," Gus replied. His patience was getting thin, but he kept his voice steady. "Or cake?" He looked at the half eaten Churros. "Are you going to finish those?"

"He asked me," Shawn breathed, looking ahead at nothing. Abruptly, Gus turned so he could firmly grasp both of Shawn's shoulders.

"I've got you," Gus said to his face, leaving Shawn to almost laugh at how literal Gus was taking this. But he couldn't do that either. "Shawn, I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I held a grudge, and didn't call, but I kept thinking . . . maybe this time, you'd take the first step—"

"_Be the better man," the killer hissed._ Shawn tensed. It wasn't that he'd never "seen" this shadow "walking" around out in the open, or "heard" the imagined dialogue—or in most cases monologue—it was that the few tiny words from Gus's mouth had set some sort of trigger off in his head. And these bullets were slow moving, and right now was not the best time for epiphanies. He couldn't afford to lose these valuable moments with Gus, so he told himself.

"You left me," Shawn monotoned, looking over Gus's shoulder to see the killer still standing by. He was grinning like a wolf. _"I left you," the killer repeated, his voice smoky and rough._

Gus frowned. He wanted to say that, while he had left, he did come back. But this wasn't the place. This wasn't the time.

Shawn was . . . off. Or wrong. He didn't know which. And it more than scared Gus; the cure was going to take more than just one or two pieces of pie.

# # #

Though he told himself it was through Herculean persuasion, in actuality getting Shawn to his car was more like walking a marionette on a string than a pit bull terrified of a visit to the vet. Gus was relieved too that the action looked more like one friend being comforted by the other rather than something construed as "by force".

Shawn had said nothing following his wounded statement, nothing which would confirm or deny Gus' urge that they go off somewhere less open public and with more food to talk. Gus kept his hand at Shawn's elbow, enough pressure to let him know if Shawn slipped the coop. Shawn didn't resist; he stood still as Gus opened the passenger door and "helped" him in, even remaining in his seat as Gus hurried around to the driver's side, got in and locked all the doors.

"I'm glad you're still here, Shawn," Gus told him quietly, reaching across to squeeze Shawn's shoulder. "I've missed you."

_No one ever takes me seriously,_ Shawn thought distantly, as if the words were out of his reach, not his own. He opened his mouth but, as of late, had no nonsense formed, ready to pile out, as if many clowns emerging from a tiny car at a circus. Shawn closed his mouth, felt his dry lips hit each other, and swallowed dryly. He was taking in Gus's words, chewing on them without tasting them or processing them, but still, they were going down this throat. "Like powdered mash potatoes," he whispered, hoarse.

"What is?" Gus asked, confused. "Which part? Shawn?"

He swallowed. This was not the time to discuss how magical he found water lately, not just for humans but for powdered mash potatoes alike.

Gus looked Shawn over again. Physically—in spite of appearing a little skinner and a lot scruffier—he seemed fine. But he couldn't see what Shawn looked like emotionally. He wanted to believe that he could get Shawn to talk to him but he confronted the possibility that he might need some help.

He wanted to be greedy, keep Shawn for himself for at least a few hours, but he knew that Henry would want to know as soon as possible Shawn's whereabouts. Sighing, he retrieved his work phone and sent Henry a quick text.

_Shawn is found._ In a way, he added silently to himself.


	10. Chapter 10: Got My Own Hell To Raise

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't know references to _Batman Forever_ or _Alien_.

Author's Note: So . . . it's been over a year since I updated, huh? Well, I recently was inspired by a sort of sad dream that I decided to write into this chapter rather than trying to text it to friends. I think this was the best way to express it. By the way, I know I still owe many of you review responses—I haven't forgotten, I promise.

I'm also toying with the idea of breaking this story into two parts, possibly making this into a trilogy rather than just keeping it a sequel. I suppose there was more story to tell then I originally thought and planned for (when _doesn't_ that happen in my fics? lol), but I guess I'll see how it goes. :) **"Where Do We Go From Here?"**, to me, seems to be shaping up to mostly about emotions and less about action and adventure, so I wonder if it makes more sense to have a third story which follows the sorting out of psychological pains and such.

As always, reviews, constructive criticism, thoughts and feedback are welcome. Thanks for support and encouragement! Enjoy!

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**Chapter Ten: Don't Come Around, I Got My Own Hell To Raise**

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# # #

Shawn's words buzzed in Gus's head; when they were said they were tender and wistful, and their brief appearance into the air of the car had almost broken his heart.

"_We used to do this, all the time. Ride together." _

Gus's earlier selfish ploy of playing keep-away with his best friend at one of their favorite diners or at the Psych office dissolved. This may look like old times to any outsider, but it was not; both men in the car were close and closer to tears. He needed reinforcements; if he had to admit something big in that moment, Gus would have said he was on edge, nervous and fearful—either that Shawn would not talk or that he would. Still, he took the scenic route, gritting his teeth at how much gas he was wasting doing so, just so he could spend a little more time with Shawn while it was just the two of them.

He kicked himself for not thinking to have them stay at the Psych office; obviously, Shawn had been interested in it as a destination, if he'd walked there on his own. Gus had at least a thousand questions he could think of off the top of his head to ask Shawn, but as he struggled with his own muddled silence, Shawn seemed almost . . . _at ease_ not to speak. Gus stole another not so furtive glance at Shawn. Even when highly disgruntled or frustrated beyond coherent speech, Shawn would still run his mouth. Gus thought of their last summer at Camp Tikihama, when he had chosen Jason Cunningham over Shawn because he wanted to win the _pinata_ contest.

"_Killer Bee. If you're looking for your pocket knife, it's still in my back." _

Gus experienced a swell of emotion, as if he had a balloon expanding from within his ribcage. "Shawn," he burst out, "you're not going to go away again, are you?"

Shawn turned his head to give Gus another once over, taking his time. He was curious at the verge of waterworks in Gus's voice, and heard, without actually hearing the words, "Say you'll stay."

He answered it with a certainty he hadn't felt in months, not since the last time he'd taken a good look at that hat pin—proof of crimes, a killer's as well as his own. "I'll stay." Then, because it felt good to say it and feel the rush of hope he'd felt while looking at the Psych office, Shawn added, "Gus."

When Gus answered, he was still choked up. "You will? You really will?" A few tears slid from his eyes in long streaks. He wiped at them with the back of his hand. "That's great, Shawn."

"Gus?" Shawn asked.

"Yes?"

"Do you . . . need a hanky?"

Gus jerked his head in Shawn's direction, sure that he had not imagined the hint of teasing in Shawn's voice, before turning back to the road. "No, thanks," Gus sniffled, "I'm good."

"What about an ascot?" It was out of his lips before he even thought of saying something else or not. When he caught Gus' eye, he saw something familiar in the wrinkle of Gus' brow and the bridge of his nose, something that flashed in a blink across his face that acknowledged Shawn's comment and decided on the spot whether or not such comment should be dignified with an answer. It looked as if Gus was fighting a comment, a negative one at that. A smile tugged at a corner of Shawn's mouth.

As they drove—all over Santa Barbara, it looked like—it surprised Shawn how it was almost _easy_ to fall back in rhythm with Gus—even with the few words they exchanged; even in the silences—following their temporary separation—almost as if there had been no reason to stay apart.

But there were reasons. The estrangement had been voluntary, and one-sided; Shawn tasted something bitter under his tongue as he cast a look at his friend, but found he couldn't hold his evil stare with much conviction. Maybe the estrangement had actually been _two-sided_; plenty of time passed with neither of them making efforts at communication or reconnection.

But this didn't matter, it was graffiti on a overpass—or was that saying water under the bridge? Well, he'd heard it both ways. Shawn was reminded of his return to Santa Barbara four years before, dropping in on Gus at his other workplace and proposing the idea of becoming private detectives. Then, Gus could have said no, but Shawn had been counting on Gus saying yes, and maybe there was a tiny bit of him that was actually psychic because Gus had said yes, with little convincing. And then Gus had stayed after the case wrapped to become a co-owner of the Psych office and to see what was going to come next.

Yeah, now was sort of like that, in a way. Shawn felt his lips press into a small, brief smile. He wasn't the least bit unnerved, once he got used to the idea of it, to be in the car—or care—of Gus. This was the best he'd felt in months.

Shawn held onto that, ignoring that it might be fleeting. Sooner or later, he might have to talk about it all—but not now.

He recalled a recurring dream he had, an anomaly really, in accordance with his more nasty recurring dreams—both sleeping and waking—of the killer ghost. This other recurring dream left him saddened upon dreaming and nearly brokenhearted upon waking. Its main player was Gus, but sometimes Jules or his father tagged along, each nicely dressed, with an air of cold business thinly veiled with quick smiles that never really touched the eyes. They would show up unexpectedly, at his latest makeshift apartment or sometimes, at the Psych office, which was always grey around the edges, cobwebs in corners and on the ceiling and dust on all their cheery toys. Shawn would dream of other company, somewhere in another room, faceless company who expected him to sit and dine with them, but his surprise at the arrival of Gus would give way to forgetfulness and a budding mirth.

"You're here," Shawn mouthed with an astonishment, taking in the neat details of their outfits—the heather gray cable knit sweater Gus wore, his well-pressed tan slacks; the dangling, tiny black bows hanging from Juliet's ears, her blond hair worked smartly into a bun; his father wearing a sharp blue tie. "Please, can you stay?" he'd asked, looking them over as if they were nothing more than apparitions who would fade away. "I was just about to eat—"

"We can't stay, Shawn," Gus—or Jules—would state coolly, making to smooth out an invisible wrinkle in a shirt or fix a hair that was not out of place. The same speaker—often Gus—would continue while the other partner in the cruel act of deception would remain eternally silent, mostly not looking in Shawn's direction at all. His father never spoke at all. They would both rise, if seated on a desk or a couch and tell him, "We have reservations."

"Please," Shawn implored, his own voice a soft whine in his ears. "Have dinner with me, here."

When Shawn woke, he was still in the room with them—or visa versa—as the dream dissolved, gone. It was never any less sad that he had not had to watch them walk away, the question of why he could never tag along much less be invited to their plans dying long before it ever reached his lips.

Now, he stole a look at Gus, tears stinging his eyes. Gus had just finished begging him to stay, and he could have easily said no, could have easily done whatever was necessary to make Gus suffer, but he didn't know if he had the strength or the cunning to refuse. Maybe he'd deserved it, at least some of it, and it would be too much a waste to blame Gus for their huge rift, for the ravine that had gaped wide between them.

Back then, however many months ago, Shawn had had a plan, one he'd thought relatively sound and solid, and didn't even consider an alternative ending to it. "It was supposed to . . ." he whispered aloud, his face to the window. It was supposed to go down like this: After his "anonymous tip", Jules and Lassie would go to investigate, find the killer and make an arrest based on circumstantial evidence, and halt any further killings then and there. Then Shawn would be called in to "divine" actual evidence, or at least, where to find it.

Truth was, Shawn wasn't really psychic and _didn't know_—didn't know that when he'd caught a glimpse of The Man Who Would Be Killer, that the man was _actually_ the killer. In real life. Still, Shawn had inferred that the man he'd seen—only from the side and then the back, turning gracefully into an open door—looked suspicious enough, oily and feral. He was not here to drift, as Shawn had own done on the other side of the world, but looked to be here for a bad purpose.

Shawn hadn't wanted to touch him with a ten foot pole, had not wanted to be close enough to him to smell his breath or sweat, nor to exchange any words with him until one of them was safe behind bulletproof glass. "Preferably me," Shawn whispered, his eyes fixed on the passing scenery.

"Shawn?" Gus asked quietly, tentatively holding off from asking any direct stupid questions, waiting to see if Shawn would answer.

"Where are we going?" Shawn asked, rubbing his eyes. He turned his head to Gus, as if he could tell from the look on Gus' face better than the familiarity of his surroundings out the car window. "Are we going to your apartment?" He waited, reading Gus' tensed jaw muscles as a warning: _No way in hell, Shawn, are we going to my apartment. So you can wait till I fall asleep and take off in my car and disappear again?_

Shawn gave a small laugh. "Gus, do you really think that? Dude, I haven't even driven my motorcycle since that night, not since I wiped out in the SBPD parking lot." His voice, still small, turned dark. "I walk everywhere now, I never have that far to go. Are we going to my apartment?" He ignored the look Gus was giving him, the somewhat "you sound crazy right now" look, with raised eyebrows and widened eyes.

"Shawn, I—"

"Now you're going to say you didn't say anything but I still somehow read your mind," Shawn interrupted. "Well, I didn't. I can't do that." He sighed. _I've missed you, Gus._ "I can't do that. Don't be an ambidextrous platypus. I don't want to go to my dad's house."

Gus let out a little sigh, followed by what he hoped was a placating "Shawn—"

"No, no, no, no, no, not yet," Shawn pleaded. "Too many questions, too many questions, too many questions, too many variables."

Without thinking, Gus slammed on the brakes. His heart had begun to slam against his chest; Shawn, whom had just seemed properly himself, was too quickly changing back into the man who spoke too softly and answered questions with single words or cryptic declarations. A car horn shook them, and Gus took his foot off the brake.

"Your dad wants to see you, you can get that, can't you?" Gus muttered, watching the car that had honked pass him a blur of engine noise and middle fingers.

Shawn shook his head.

"You can't see it or you don't want to see it?" Gus narrowed his eyes. He'd started to circle Henry's neighborhood, dropping down below the recommended speed of 30mph, hoping that it wouldn't be a speed Shawn would consider safe enough to tear off of his seatbelt and leap from the moving Blueberry.

"I've heard it both ways," Shawn muttered, crossing his arms. He looked out his window, noticing the houses that had looked so much bigger when he and Gus were just kids. Most of them were still well-maintained, except for Old Man Fuller's house, which looked as decrypt as it had both when they were growing up and when they'd focused on it two years ago following Fuller's murder. New ownership had done nothing for it, Shawn observed; just as well. He thought about the saying about putting lipstick on a pig; no matter what, that place would always be some old haunted den of secrets.

"I want to see Jules," Shawn declared. "I want to see her right now." He tugged on his seatbelt. "If you're not going to take me there I'm going to walk."

Gus threw his arm out, as if to hold him back. "Wait, Shawn!" He pulled Shawn's hand off the seatbelt. "Take you where?"

"To the SBPD. I bet she's there, right now. I wanna go!"

Gus looked Shawn in the eye, wondering which one of them was out of his right mind to want this, right now.

"Come on, Gus! I got to see you today, now I want to see her!" Shawn had a wild look in his eye, but Gus had a feeling he better not comment or refuse his best friend. Maybe after catching up with Juliet, some of Shawn's restlessnesses would be shaken off. Or maybe he'd insist Gus chauffeur him around, to anywhere and everywhere but Henry's house.

# # #

The woman outside the diner had detoured Lassiter's route; no longer did he want to hit the books—or as he more suspected, the Microfiche—at the moment. Instead, Carlton drove around till he found a pub, betting a midday Scotch or two might clear his head. Clear his head, sure that was what he really wanted. If he were in Santa Barbara, he'd be on duty right now; he didn't so much like this idle time as he thought he might, but he knew this bar would be frequented by locals, so he figured he could do a little detective work anyway. It was time to start asking the right questions.

He sat down at the bar and ordered a Scotch, but only took a few sips before his mind wandered.

Dying could have been easy; it was his blood on the floor, leaking out, dripping out, but for some reason he was a fighter and clung to life.

He was still clinging, had been since he was discharged from the hospital and cleared for desk duty. Carlton had begun to believe that if he went to New Mexico, his problems would remain in Santa Barbara, trapped behind the threshold of the building where Saul tortured him, or inside his apartment where O'Hara unwittingly glimpsed his chest scars, or chained to his desk where all of his detective work centered around planning his journey and locating Saul's perhaps mythical grandfather. A tall tale, even more of ghost than Saul would ever be.

Carlton started his journey alone and intended to finish it as solitarily as possible. In this place, he had no use for a partner or for any friends. He might be able to count on the support of the local LEOs, but he'd believe it when he saw it.

If there was a way to forget . . . a way without mind-altering drugs, or a serious head injury, or time travel . . .

Carlton licked his dry lips. There had been plenty of moments in his life he'd rather forget, rather not remember with either clear precision or with an uneasy blur, plenty of moments before the traumatic, life-altering day spent with Saul. Since then, he knew he had hovered in a state of limbo, uncertain of direction.

Carlton sat up straight, pushing his drink away with his knuckles. He got the bartender's attention with a wave of two fingers, and told the man to make his Scotch a double. When the bartender returned with his order, he beat Carlton to the questions. "New in town or just passing by?" the man asked, giving him a shrewd stare. No one else in this bar was wearing a suit; obviously Lassiter didn't belong in a shifty little place like this, not for long.

Carlton didn't like the looks of him. He'd bet anything the man had a sawed-off shotgun hidden behind the bar, well in reach. He took a sip of the Scotch, letting it burn his throat before he answered. "I'm visiting."

The bartender raised a curious eyebrow. "Visiting what?" He leaned forward, though the place was half-empty so they weren't that likely to be overheard. "You a lawman, mister?" His eyes narrowed. "Or you a priest?"

Lassiter bristled at this last and touched the glass to his lips. His unfortunate encounter with the delusional woman was sliding away, replaced now with a scorn for this yokel. He thought about standing up and flashing his badge, slamming it down on the bar. He swallowed these thoughts with another sip of the amber liquid. "I'm here to find any living relatives of Saul Grant," he told the bartender.

The man pulled back, rocked on his heels. "Is that so," not a question; perhaps he didn't care for confirmation.

Carlton curtailed a scowl and kept his voice even. "Do you happen to know—"

A barstool slid across the floor, making an awful scraping noise. Before Carlton could finish his question, another man's liquor heavy breath was in his personal space. "What'reya asking about that for?" the drunken redneck demanded, suspicious. "How ya know about the Grants?" Carlton turned his head with a mild annoyance in mind.

"Hey, ya shit, I'm talkin'to ya!" The redneck, an older man with tan, battered skin resembling old leather, reached out drunkenly and hit Carlton in the chest, right over one of his longer scars. He winced but managed to grab the man's hand and shove him backwards. He got of the stool and stood to his full height; the redneck didn't look intimidated in spite of not being much taller than 5'8. "Ya wanna go?"

Lassiter let a frustrated growl escape through his nose. It might feel good, to get in a fight, to throw and land a couple of good punches, even to get thrown out of the bar, but he really didn't want to fight with this idiot. "What the hell is your problem?"

"The hell's yours?" the redneck spat. He had a mean look in his eyes. "We don't need no strangers here, so get your ass the hell out."

Lassiter bit his tongue to stop himself from saying "Make me." It was too easy. Threatening this idiot was just as dumb as asking him questions—but he had gone on alert the second his question was challenged. Was it just the mention of Saul Grant that had riled them up, or was it the question of living relatives? He shot a look at the bartender, who'd crossed his arms and flattened his mouth, but was watching them as if he were just itching to see a fight—or pull out his shotgun and start shooting.

Ignoring both of them, Carlton got his wallet out and paid for his drinks, leaving a couple of extra bills for the tip.

"City slicker," he heard another voice hiss from across the bar.

"Coward," another man threw out. There were murmurs of agreement.

Carlton started, catching the lilt of accent in this man's voice of what he had heard in Saul's. He was about to open his mouth and snarl the first thing that came to mind when the redneck closest to him drew a blade from its sheath on his belt.

"Who the hell ya think ya're, stirring the pot?" the redneck slurred, his eyes flashing.

A few precious moments passed before Carlton even considered reaching from his gun usually snug in his shoulder holster. He had frozen, "weapon shy", staring at the glint from the blade. Clearly, this man wasn't about to grab him, put the knife to his throat and make threats. He had only pulled the blade to scare him, to get him to back away physically and to get him to stop asking questions. He blinked hard, his heart rate going up and up.

"Jimmy, put it away," the bartender growled from behind them. "I'll call the sheriff."

"Go ahead," Jimmy slurred, his knuckles around the blade turning white.

Lassiter cleared his throat, wishing suddenly for a glass of water. "Forget it. I'm leaving." His voice sounded rough but not shaky, a small mercy.

Outside, in the safety of the sun, Carlton reflected on his cool reaction. The blade was just small and he figured, despite any lingering pain from his older injuries, he would have be easily able to deflect an attack and disarm the old fool; always his training instincts kicked in, especially with adrenaline on high alert.

He shook his head and pulled out his phone. He just wanted to hear her voice, even if she agreed that he was nothing more than a coward. She might be able to reassure him that he wasn't, or even offer a long distance slap on the forehead so he could snap out of this current funk. She was the only one who could give it to him.

"O'Hara," she answered.

"O'Hara, it's me, Lassiter," Carlton said, plunking himself behind the wheel of the rental. He had expected her usual cheery greeting or even an over-sharing of what was going on with her or in a case she was working. Instead, silence. Then, a chilly acknowledgement of him, like an accusation. "Oh. It's _you_."

Truthfully, they hadn't spoken much—was it at all? He couldn't quite remember. Had he called her when he got here, made any indication that his flight was fine?

"I—" Lassiter moved his tongue around his mouth, trying to moisten all of its dry parts. He swallowed and his head pounded, either from fear or the Scotch—maybe both. His fingers fumbled with a lukewarm bottle of water, pressing it first to his temple before taking the cap off. He decided to just say it, and allow her to pass whatever judgment she saw fit. "I—I just had a knife pulled on me . . ." He swallowed again. "And I froze."

On the other end of the line, her sighing took a gradual dip from angry indifference to sympathetic concern. He listened to her breathing, waiting in surprising patience for her to come up with an answer.

"Carlton," her voice crackled after a few minutes. He could see the lines creasing her forehead, see her running her hands across her tired face, see her mouth etched into a loose frown. "It's been two weeks. Will you . . . will it be . . . much longer?"

He pressed his lips into a tight line. _I thought she was just going to yell at me, tell me to be more of a man. More of the goddamn Head Detective I am._ "I'm not . . . I haven't . . ."

She sighed loudly. He couldn't tell what kind of sigh it was. Finally, she made a request. "Will you let me . . . come out there?"

"What are you asking me?" he countered, thinking he knew well, but frowning to think it was what she really meant. "You're not asking me to leave already? I just got here."

Juliet huffed. "I don't think this is good for you, being out there. I never did."

"You have no idea what's good for me," he replied, his voice flat. "I don't need you to rescue me from this, not this time." His frown deepened into a scowl. "It was a mistake, calling you."

"How dare you," she snapped. "It was my mistake for taking your call. You are so far gone that you don't even know. I'm the only one who sees it—who saw it."

The implication hung in the air between their charged silences: he had run away from her despite his telling her that wasn't the case. It was a lie. Or. at the very least, a mistruth. "Can't you just support me and just leave it at that?" he demanded.

"You are so blind that you don't know when you need rescuing," Juliet spoke in an angry, low voice.

"I _don't_ need—"

She cut him off. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I don't know you, or know what's good for you. You certainly spent enough time while you were here, pushing me out of your life. Now you've gone off to the desert to hunt down your demons even though you have no idea what they look like. Sounds really healthy to me."

"Don't come here," Carlton snipped suddenly. "I don't need you to fight this battle for me."

"I don't need your permission!" she yelled so loud his ears rang, and the launched into a tirade. He was certain she must be drawing the attention of everyone in the Bullpen, that soon enough Vick would emerge from her office for an explanation or a reprimand. Rather than hanging up, he remained silent as she swore at him, ranted the splinters she must have been carrying around with her for a long time in her small body into his like javelins, piercing the roof of his car, trapping him in place. He was going to need the jaws of life to get out of here, following this tongue lashing. Then Carlton heard her scream at Shawn Spencer, who must have come in during her session of roughly shoving Carlton back in his place, of holding him down by the shoulder, by the fingers or with her high heeled shoes.

The call ended abruptly. Lassiter pulled the phone from his ear slowly, not sure what to think. He wasn't sure if he should be proud of the "values" he'd instilled in his partner or appalled at her tone and trucker language. He did feel he should be furious, and want to call her back for a long rant of his own . . . but alone in his car with the windows up, he started to laugh. At some point, the laughter changed; his phone beeped with a text message, the letters all capitalized.

He opened his phone, checking the area for onlookers. No men had followed him from the bar, no one he could see was watching him.

_DON'T YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND I'M THROUGH WITH YOU, CARLTON LASSITER. _

It was from O'Hara, of course, but for a few seconds, Lassiter's mind pitched him backwards to the killer's leaning over him, holding his chin with one hand while he sliced open one of the smaller cuts on his face from his fall in the police station—the morning before he was abducted. Saul had spoken words similar after he'd returned from chasing Spencer off, trying to make Lassiter believe he'd murdered the fake psychic.

Breath shuddered from his throat, the air around him "chilled". He should see this text as a blessing—though he knew it for it was. But for now, and to escape from yet another terrible reminder of the killer's physical and emotional wounds, Lassiter decided to take its meaning that his partner—_still_ his partner—was not yet giving up on him—that she would never abandon him, no matter what he had to say about it.

Carlton wondered if she was serious, if she would honestly get on a plane, track him down and try to drag him back to Santa Barbara by the hair or the hand.

She had to know, she must have to, that he _had_ to do this. He had to be here. She didn't have to understand it or accept it or agree with it, but she had to . . . Lassiter chewed on these thoughts, wondering just how much she did "know". From what she just admitted, it wasn't much.

He knew he had called her seeking . . . familiarity, more than anything else, but he hoped with all the shattered remains of his soul that she did not come out here, that she did not believe it was in her place to reach him, pull him back from the edge.

# # #

She had seen the phantom. A flash of him, white-faced and wordless, his lips formed a pained "O". Within her chest, a deadened shift, as if something substantial was trying to pound itself out, vaguely reminiscent a scene from _Alien_. Fleetingly, Juliet wondered if she should be more ashamed—since she had chased him away—a flash, that was all, in the station in almost two months—the months in which he had been "missing", "out of the way", or, at the least, missed.

He was not, at the quick glance she'd had of him, the Shawn she'd last seen, no, he was scruffier and skinner, face as pale as a full moon.

It took her much reflection before she realized what he reminded her of, with his dark circled eyes and general unhealthy appearance. He looked just like the two of them, her own reflection in the mirror and the one of herself she saw in Carlton: lackluster, haunted, going through the motions. _I'm sure he's just fine,_ she'd told herself unconvincingly.

The Chief had words for her, but wanted to hear Shawn's story as much as her own, postponing ordering Juliet into her office only to intervene, to keep Shawn and Gus from disappearing completely. "McNab!" Vick called. "Stop them!"

After her sharpness, Karen lowered her voice so just the two of them could hear. "Detective, when's the last time you made an appointment with your psychologist?"

Juliet sat back, straining a long huff out through her teeth. "I was just talking to Carlton—our conversation was heated, and it just got out of control," she confessed. "It won't happen again."

Karen looked unconvinced, but said anyway with a sigh, "I'd like to believe that, Detective." She looked like she had plenty to add, but held her tongue when she saw McNab escorting Shawn and Gus back. Before they were even to Juliet's desk, Gus frowned. He had a good grip on Shawn's elbow.

"Was that really necessary, Juliet?" Gus snapped, as if he'd been the one she offended. He had a steely gleam in this eye. "He _wanted_ to see you. He asked to see you."

"Gentlemen, what's this about?" Vick asked, nodding to McNab for an aside.

Gus make a tsking noise. "Why are you asking us for? She's the hysterical one who freaked out."

Juliet's mouth dropped open. "That had nothing to do with—" She took a deep breath. It was no use sounding defensive.

"Shawn," Juliet said quietly, looking him up and down as he sat before her, in the same chair Henry had sat in not that long ago. Though he smelled like himself, he looked unwashed, a tangle of hair on his chin and the sides of his face. He wasn't looking back at her, not quite, and he hadn't said a word since he'd been here, all factors which unsettled her. Could there be . . . someone else? Was he now giving her the silent treatment? How long had the world—their world—been so wrong? Since the Lassiter Disaster or—? She bit her lip.

"Shawn," she repeated more firmly, aware of Gus's hard glaring in her direction, "I apologize, I didn't mean to yell at you. I wasn't—I wasn't really yelling at _you_." Juliet felt unsure whether to take her explanation further. It had been difficult to put into words for the Chief, as she didn't really know. Instead, she put her hand on his wrist, immediately pulling his eyes from studying the floor to her face. "Are you okay?"

Her voice was soft and thin, pulled taut across her lips but it was _still her_, Shawn noticed. She was still in there. It was a loaded question—one that even changed Gus's glaring to an expression of worry. He didn't know the answer either. Shawn considered saying, "I forgive you", directing it to the whole room just to make his insides hurt less, but the words wouldn't come out.

His eyes started to wander, drifting away from her face._Where's Lassie? _he wanted to ask._ Is he dead?_ His desk was empty and there was no sign of him, no Crown Vic in the parking lot and no sound of his bark—as scary as his bite. Shawn shook his head slowly. No, that wasn't right.

Lassie wasn't dead. Even though there was so much blood, less red than black, sinking into the ground. "He's not dead," Shawn whispered, barely loud enough for the two of them to hear, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. Juliet, in a panic, dropped his wrist.

Just like that, it seemed, their momentarily reconnection was literally broken. Shawn caught Gus' eye, and half stood up. "I wanna go," he said.

Gus got up right away and went to him. "Right now, Shawn?" he asked gently, ignoring Juliet completely.

"I want go to my dad's house," Shawn replied softly, "isn't it funny?"

Gus nodded. "All right."

"Shawn?" Juliet frowned and stood up too. "Don't you want to talk about this?"

"I don't want to talk about anything." He sounded defensive, and backed away from her. Gus slipped his arm around Shawn's shoulders. "I can't talk about anything."

Juliet's heart beat quickly, not knowing what to do. If anything was usual between them, it was that she was the one who pulled back, who walked away leaving Shawn with a reproach over her shoulder. But now she just wanted him to stay, and he wanted to go. _"He's not dead," _the blank words she wondered if were uttered only for her benefit confused her. She didn't know what he was talking about, not quite.

He didn't have any plan, no plans to make her suffer, but when he saw Vick, standing on the fringe, watching, his felt his words loosen, felt himself open up to her, because the Chief had never been in his dreams. He turned to her, unaware of Gus' slip of pressure from his arm, going on ahead.

"Where's Lassie?"

Karen blinked, pursing her lips. "Mr. Spencer—" She looked solemn. "He's on leave, vacation time."

Shawn paused, physically stopping while his thoughts tripped over each other. "What? Lassie . . . doesn't go on _vacation_."

"He's not on vacation," Juliet said stiffly from behind them. Shawn could feel her breath on the back of his neck. For a few seconds, he was nowhere in the world, and then he was suddenly in that building with her, watching her pull the trigger. He flinched with recollection.

"You killed him," Shawn murmured, turning around to face her.

"I didn't—" Juliet began, unsure of what he meant. Her mouth was dry.

"I was there, Jules," Shawn continued, his voice too faraway. "The killer, you killed him. That vile evil man."

"Shawn?" Gus called. "Are you ready?"

Shawn looked up at Gus' voice and left the two women, both in a daze as much as he was. "Gus, are we going to get pie now? You promised me pie. You ate my Churros."

Juliet threw up her hands, watching Shawn go, turning a corner without looking back. "Where have you been, Shawn?" she whispered, retreating to her desk. Just _where_?

Forget where her partner was—oh. Juliet paused as she sat down. At least she _knew_ where Carlton was, his geography at least—Norton, New Mexico, Saul's Grant hometown. And she'd just heard his voice a short time ago, when he'd called and when she'd taken his head off.

She knew that she owed Carlton a call back, and possibly—probably—an apology. He hadn't said a word against her when she started screaming, had not even hung up the phone. Juliet also owed Shawn time, but not space. She wouldn't dream of dropping in at Henry Spencer's house; it could be a recipe for disaster—unless, unless, she baked something. Shawn had babbled briefly about pie, and she knew Gus had a soft spot for anything sweet and pastry related.

Her words to Carlton echoed furiously in her head as she thought of what Shawn reminded her of, and considered the same, strange way the three of them were still haunted—still in the grip of a man who was dead. _It was me. I did it._ _I made him a ghost._


End file.
